^A^    •-**- 

X 


LEGENDS  OF  LONG  AGO 

("Sieben  Legenden") 


By 

GOTTFRIED  KELLER 


Translated  by 
CHARLES  HART  HANDSCHIN 


>     3         O 
)     3        J  J 


THE  ABBEY  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


554 


Copyright  1911.  by 
THE  ABBEY  COMPANY 


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FOREWORD  -^^ 

GOTTFRIED  KELLER,  "the  mHS^crrnoyQl. , 
ist    of  this  age  and  without   question  its 
most    original    literary    personality,"    was 
called  by  Paul  Heyse  "the  Shakespeare  of  the  short- 
story." 

It  is  little  wonder  that  the  beauty  and  naive  at- 
mosphere of  his  native  city,  Zurich,  where  he  was 
born  in  1819,  should  have  inspired  the  art-loving 
lad  to  become  a  painter.  Poor  in  worldly  goods, 
bereft  of  a  father  at  five,  the  lad  fought  and  suffered 
bravely.  After  leaving  school,  he  was  apprenticed 
in  succession  to  tv.'^o  minor  painters  of  Zurich,  and 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one  went  to  Munich  to  con- 
tinue his  studies.  But  he  was  in  financial  straits 
most  of  the  two  years  spent  there,  and  his  forte 
seem.s  to  have  been  fencing  and  rapier-fighting 
rather  than  art.  In  the  fall  of  1842,  he  returned 
home  and  took  to  literature. 

Like  Lincoln,  he  was  no  favorite  with  women. 
His  first  love  v/as  characteristic.  In  1847,  he  fell 
a  victim  to  the  charms  of  pretty  Louise  Rieter,  and 
was  unhappy  all  summer  because,  poor  and  without 
a  calling,  he  dared  not  importune  her.  Finally,  one 
day  in  the  fall,  he  wrote  her  a  letter  confessing  his 
love  but  warning  her  against  reciprocating  it.     He 

[3] 


311569 


never  married,  but  his  pure  regard  for  woman  made 
.him  Qrtei  olMhC;  foremost  painters  of  feminine  char- 
acter known  to  modern  literature. 

We  next  find  him  in  study  at  the  University  of 
Heidelberg,  where  he  resolves  to  devote  himself 
to  literature.  In  Berlin,  whither  he  next  went,  to 
gain  a  knowledge  of  the  stage,  he  had  again  to 
battle  with  grim  want.  His  first  book  of  poems, 
published  in  Zurich,  had  not  been  remunerative. 
His  first  novel  now  proved  no  more  so.  He  was 
proud.  He  would  not  return  home.  He  would 
not  write  to  his  loved  mother  before  he  had  made 
a  name  for  himself.  He  was  lonely  and  forsaken. 
He  knew  not  whence  his  next  meal  v/ould  come. 
Pessimism  was  peeping  in  at  his  windows.  It  was 
then  that  his  thoughts  turned  lovingly  to  his  beau- 
tiful homeland,  and  out  of  the  depths  of  his  soul 
he  wrote  the  first  volume  of  that  cycle  of  immortal 
stories,  "The  People  of  Seldwyl."  The  battle  was 
won.  His  innate  goodness  of  heart,  his  sturdy 
view  of  life,  had  triumphed. 

After  returning  to  Zurich  he  was  given  the  posi- 
tion of  Secretary  of  the  Canton,  which  he  held  for 
fifteen  years.  The  first  fruit  of  his  new  life  is  our 
present  cycle  of  stories,  modern  versions  of  lives  of 

[4] 


saints,  under  the  title  "Sieben  Legenden,"— one  of 
the  seven  being  here  omitted. 

Keller's  f^me,  now  fully  established,  v/as  aug- 
mented by  several  series  of  short  stories,  which 
earned  for  him,  at  the  hands  of  an  eminent  Ger- 
man literary  historian,  the  appellation  of  "the  Swiss 
Goethe,"  and  which  made  his  name  a  household 
word  in  German  speaking  countries. 

Keller's  townspeople  are  still  fond  of  showing  the 
favorite  haunts  of  the  old  poet,  who  died  in  1890, 
and  of  telling  anecdotes  of  his  kindly  humor  and 
genial  bluntness.  And  v/ell  may  the  people  of 
Switzerland  point  to  him  with  pride,  for  it  was 
the  Florentine  day  of  their  national  art  when  two 
men  whose  names  would  have  made  famous  any 
city  in  Christendom,  Gottfried  Keller  and  Arnold 
Bocklin,  lived  and  wrought  in  a  single  Swiss  town. 

The  "Sieben  Legenden"  represents  Keller  at  his 
best.  Their  naive  ingenuousness,  poetic  charm,  and 
quaint  humor  have  made  these  legends  a  favorite 
book  among  German-speaking  peoples  the  world 
over.  They  are  offered  here,  for  the  first  time  in 
English,  in  the  hope  that  this  little  volume  may 
add  to  the  enjoyment  of  many  who  love  the  whole- 
some and  the  pure  in  literature. 

[5] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Sister  Beatrice,  or  the  Virgin  and  the  Nun 7 

Eugenia 15 

The  Virgin  and  The  Evil  One 40 

The  Virgin  in  the  Role  of  Knight 53 

Dorothea's  Flower-Basket 73 

The  Dance  Legend 87 


[6] 


SISTER  BEATRICE 

OR  THE  VIRGIN  AND  THE  NUN 

Oh  that  I  had  luings  like  a  dove!  for  then  I  ivould  fly 
aivay,  and  be  at  rest. — Psalm  55,6 


H 


CLOISTER  lay  high  up  on  a  mountain- 
side and  its  walls  shone  afar  over  the 
surrounding  country.  Within  it  were 
many  women — some  beautiful,  some  ill-favored,  all 
of  whom  served  the  Lord  and  the  Holy  Virgin  ac- 
cording to  a  strict  discipline. 

The  most  beautiful  of  the  sisters  was  Beatrice, 
the  sacristan  of  the  cloister.  Of  queenly  form,  she 
moved  from  choir  to  altar  performing  her  duties. 
She  kept  the  sacristy  in  order,  and  at  the  break  of 
day  and  again  when  the  shadows  of  evening  began 
to  fall,  she  tolled  the  cloister  bell. 

But  ever  and  again  she  turned  her  wistful  eye 
from  the  billowy  blue  of  the  sky  upon  the  passing 
gleam  of  weapons  or  listened  to  the  huntsman's  horn 
from  the  neighboring  wood  and  the  joyous  calls  of 
the  men,  and  a  great  longing  to  see  the  world  filled 
her  bosom. 

When  at  last  she  was  no  longer  able  to  restrain 
the  desire  of  her  heart,  she  arose  one  moonlit  night 

[7] 


in  June,  put  strong  shoes  upon  her  feet,  and,  ready 
for  departure,  approached  the  altar.  *'I  have  served 
thee  faithfully  for  many  a  year,"  thus  spake  she  to 
the  Virgin,  "but  take  now  these  keys  from  my 
hands,  for  I  am  unable  longer  to  repress  the  yearn- 
ing of  my  heart." 

Then  laying  her  bunch  of  keys  upon  the  altar, 
she  left  the  cloister.  Down  through  the  solitude 
of  the  mountain-side  she  wended  her  way  until  she 
came  to  a  crossing  of  the  paths  in  a  forest  of  oaks, 
where,  unable  to  decide  in  which  direction  to  turn, 
she  seated  herself  on  a  stone  bench  by  the  curb  of  a 
moss-covered  fountain,  and  there  rested  through 
the  dewy  night  until  the  break  of  day. 

Over  the  tree-tops  now  there  shone  the  first 
rays  of  the  morning  sun,  and  they  fell  upon  a 
splendid  knight  who  came  riding  up,  clad  in  armor, 
and  all  alone. 

The  nun's  beautiful  eyes  rested  full  upon  the 
manly  figure,  but  she  remained  so  quiet  that  the 
knight  had  not  seen  her  but  for  the  plashing  of  the 
spring,  which,  striking  his  ear,  directed  his  eye 
thither. 

Straightway  he  made  for  the  spot,  dismounted, 
and,  allowing  the  steed  to  quench  his  thirst,  greeted 
the  nun  reverently.     He  was  a  crusader  returning 

[8] 


home  after  a  long  absence,  alone,  for  he  had  lost 
ail  of  his  companions. 

But  in  spite  of  his  reverential  demeanor,  his  ad- 
miring eyes  never  wandered  from  the  fair  face  of 
Beatrice,  who  in  turn  continued  to  look  in  wonder 
and  delight  at  the  warrior,  for  here,  certainly  before 
her  she  beheld  a  part  of  the  world  for  which  she 
had  longed  in  secret.  Then  she  looked  down  abashed. 

The  knight  now  asked  whither  she  was  bound 
and  vv^hether  he  might  be  of  service  to  her.  The 
sound  of  his  voice  recalled  her  to  herself,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  again,  and,  confessing  all,  told  him 
of  how  she  had  flov/n  from  the  cloister  to  see  the 
world,  and  that  already  she  v/as  in  great  fear  and 
knev/  not  whither  to  turn. 

The  knight  laughed  a  hearty  laugh  and  offered 
to  conduct  her  to  a  safe  road,  should  she  feel  dis- 
posed to  entrust  herself  to  him.  "My  castle,"  he 
added,  "is  not  more  than  a  day's  journey  distant; 
there  you  may  prepare  yourself  in  safety  for  your 
advent  into  the  great  and  beautiful  world." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  allowed  him  without 
resistance  to  place  her  upon  his  charger.  There- 
upon he  himself  m.ounted,  and,  with  the  happy  nun 
seated  in  front  of  him,  they  rode  merrily  away 
through  the  v/ood  and  meadow. 

[9] 


The  knight  took  great  pleasure  in  the  company 
of  the  sweet  nun,  while  she,  too,  seemed  not  averse 
to  him,  and  soon  found  herself  listening  to  words  of 
love  as  eagerly  as  though  she  had  never  heard  a 
cloister  bell. 

And  thus  it  is  only  natural  that  they  saw  but 
little  of  the  passing  landscape,  or  the  sunshine,  and 
the  fair  eremite  willingly  closed  her  eyes  upon  all 
the  great  world  for  which  she  had  longed,  save 
only  the  bit  of  it  now  being  borne  along  upon  the 
back  of  the  faithful  steed. 

And  Wonnebold,  the  knight,  scarcely  thought  of 
the  castle  of  his  ancestors  until  its  towers  flashed 
out  before  them  in  the  moonlight.  All  about  the 
castle  was  quiet,  and  still  more  quiet  was  it  within, 
and  nowhere  was  there  a  light  to  be  seen. 

Wonnebold's  father  and  mother  had  died,  and 
all  the  serving  people  had  left,  save  an  old  castellan. 
He  appeared,  after  loud  knocking  and  much  ado, 
with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  he  nearly  died  with 
joy  when  he  caught  sight  of  Wonnebold,  without 
the  castle  gate. 

Despite  his  desolation  and  his  years,  the  old 
man  had  kept  the  castle  in  habitable  condition,  so 
that  on  this  evening  all  was  ready  for  the  home- 
coming knight  and  his  bride. 

[10] 


On  the  following  morning,  Wonnebold  unlocked 
the  great  family  chests  and  Beatrice  robed  herself 
in  rich  garments  and  bedecked  herself  with  jewels. 
And  this  very  day  Wonnebold  made  her  his  wife, 
and  she  became  a  noblewoman,  without  a  peer  at 
the  hunts,  the  festivals  and  dances,  as  well  as  in 
the  humble  dwellings  of  the  dependants,  and  in  the 
baronial  pew  of  the  church. 

With  varying  fortunes,  the  years  passed  by, 
and  as  twelve  summers  came  and  went,  she  bore 
her  husband  eight  sons,  who  grew  up  like  young 
stags. 

When  now  the  oldest  numbered  eighteen  win- 
ters, Beatrice  arose  one  night  in  autumn  from  her 
husband's  side,  carefully  laid  away  all  of  her 
worldly  attire  in  the  selfsame  chests  from  which 
they  had  been  taken  years  ago,  and  locked  them. 

In  her  bare  feet  now  she  stole  from  one  bed 
to  another,  kissing  her  eight  sons  in  turn,  and 
finally  laying  the  keys  down  by  the  side  of  her 
sleeping  husband,  she  bent  over  him  and  imprinted 
a  kiss  of  farewell  upon  his  lips. 

And  now  it  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment  to 
cut  off  the  long  tresses  and  to  don  her  nun's  garb 
of  dark  color,  which  she  had  preserved,  and  arrayed 
thus,  noiselessly  to  leave  the  castle  and  take  her 

'  [11] 


way  amid  the  falling  leaves  and  rushing  wind  of  the 
autumn  night  towards  the  cloister  she  had  deserted 
m.any  years  ago. 

As  she  walked  on,  she  counted  the  beads  of  her 
rosary  and  pondered  on  the  life  she  had  enjoyed. 

Thus  undaunted,  she  continued  her  pilgrimage 
until  she  stood  once  more  before  the  cloister-gate. 
She  knocked.  The  now  aged  gatekeeper  opened, 
greeting  her  casually  as  though  she  had  been  absent 
but  half  an  hour. 

Beatrice  passed  by  her  and,  entering  the  chapel, 
cast  herself  upon  her  knees  before  the  altar  of  the 
Virgin,  who  thus  addressed  her:  "Thou  hast  been 
gone  long,  my  daughter.  All  these  years  have  I 
performed  thy  service,  but  I  am  glad  now  that  thou 
hast  returned  and  canst  take  charge  of  the  keys 
once  more." 

And  the  Virgin  bent  down  and  handed  the  keys 
to  Beatrice,  who  was  transported  in  joy  and  won- 
der over  the  great  miracle.  She  entered  at  once 
upon  her  service,  putting  this  and  that  in  order, 
and  when  the  bell  tolled  the  noonday  hour,  she 
found  her  way  once  more  to  the  dining-hall. 

Many  of  the  sisters  had  grown  old,  others  had 
died,  new  ones  had  come,  and  a  strange  abbess  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table.    No  one  seemed  to  notice 

[12] 


the  changes  that  had  come  over  Beatrice,  who  had 
now  taken  her  old-time  seat,  for  the  Virgin  had 
performed  the  service  in  the  person  of  Beatrice 
herself. 

Ten  years  passed  by  and  in  the  cloister  prepara- 
tions were  in  progress  for  the  celebration  of  a 
great  festival.  On  this  occasion,  each  nun  had 
pledged  herself  to  lay  upon  the  altar  of  the  Virgin 
her  rarest  offering. 

And  thus  one  embroidered  a  costly  banner, 
another  a  covering  for  the  altar,  and  a  third  a 
chasuble.  One  wrote  a  Latin  hymn,  and  a  second 
set  it  to  music,  while  another  ornamented  a  prayer- 
book  v/ith  drawings.  Whoever  was  not  at  all  able 
to  do  a  thing  of  this  sort,  sewed  a  new  garment  to 
serve  as  a  gift  for  the  Christmas-tide,  while  the 
cook,  perhaps,  baked  a  dish  of  cakes. 

Beatrice  alone,  listless,  and  absorbed  in  memo- 
ries, dreams  of  the  past,  had  provided  no  offering. 

When,  therefore,  on  the  festal  day,  she  brought 
no  gift  whatever,  her  sister  nuns  were  amazed  and 
chided  her,  and  thus  it  happened  that  she  stood 
humbly  a  bit  to  one  side  in  the  flower-bedecked 
sanctuary,  as  the  nuns,  in  festive  procession,  laid 
their  tributes  in  turn  upon  the  altar,  to  the  tolling 
of  bells  and  the  burning  of  incense. 

[  13  ] 


And  now  the  sisters  raised  up  their  voices  and 
sang  to  the  sound  of  music,  and,  as  they  did  so, 
there  appeared,  clattering  down  the  highway,  a 
hoary  horseman  and  eight  stately  youths,  full 
armored,  well  mounted  and  followed  by  eight 
squires,  ahorse.  It  was  Wonnebold  taking  his  sons 
to  join  the  army  of  the  Emperor. 

Attracted  by  the  festive  service  within,  they 
drew  up  to  the  cloister  gate,  dismounted,  and  en- 
tered to  offer  up  a  prayer  to  the  Virgin. 

Within  the  sanctuary,  all  were  astounded  at  the 
spectacle  of  the  iron-clad  old  man  kneeling  with 
eight  youthful  warriors,  steel-clad  and  looking  like 
so  many  armored  angels.  The  sister-musicians  be- 
came confused,  and  for  a  moment  the  music  ceased 
altogether. 

Beatrice  recognized  her  sons  and  her  husband. 
She  uttered  a  cry,  hastened  towards  them,  and, 
making  herself  known  to  them,  she  told  her  secret, 
and  told,  too,  of  the  great  miracle  that  had  been 
vouchsafed  her. 

Now  all  confessed  that  hers  indeed  had  been 
the  richest  offering.  And  even  as  they  spoke  there 
appeared  upon  each  young  warrior's  head,  bowed  in 
prayer,  a  garland  of  fresh  oak  leaves,  the  testimony 
and  the  sign  manual  of  the  Queen  of  the  Heavens. 

[14] 


EUGENIA 

The  nvoman  shall  not  tuear  that  ivhich  pertaineth 
unto  a  man,  neither  shall  a  man  put  on  'woman'' s 
garment',  for  all  that  do  so  are  abomination  unto 
the  Lord  thy   God. — Deuteronomy   22,5. 

^L  WL  i^irHEN  women  lose  their  instinct  for 
^^r    f   beauty,  grace  and  femininity  and  seek 

^^^^  to  excel  in  other  realms,  it  often  hap- 
pens that  they  don  man's  attire,  and  thus  equipped 
start  out  to  make  a  trial  of  life. 

Even  the  early  Christian  legends  tell  of  in- 
stances of  such  desire,  and  more  than  one  fair  saint 
of  those  days  sought  to  emancipate  herself  from  the 
bonds  of  tradition  and  the  conventions  of  society. 

Eugenia,  a  high-bred  Roman  girl,  offers  a  case 
in  point.  Her  masculine  proclivities  betrayed  her 
into  an  adventure  which  placed  her  in  great  embar- 
'  rassment,  from  which  she  was  able  to  extricate 
herself  only  by  taking  refuge  in  the  time-honored 
resources  of  her  sex. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  highly  respected  Ro- 
man citizen  who  lived  with  his  family  in  Alex- 
andria, a  city  that  fairly  swarm.ed  with  philosophers 
and  scholars  of  all  kinds.  Eugenia  was  carefully 
V  reared  and  educated,  and  so  much  did  she  profit  by 

[15] 


her  instruction  that  as  soon  as  she  had  outgrown 
her  short  skirts,  she  was  allowed  to  attend  the 
schools  of  the  philosophers,  scholiasts  and  rhetori- 
cians, like  any  male  student.  On  the  occasion  of 
such  visits,  she  had  a  bodyguard  of  two  beautiful 
lads  of  her  own  age  to  accompany  her,  the  sons  of 
former  slaves  of  her  father,  who  were  being  edu- 
cated v/ith  Eugenia  and  taking  part  in  all  of  her 
studies.  

She  grew  up  the  most  beautiful  maiden  any- 
where to  be  found,  and  her  two  companions,  both 
of  whom,  strangely  enough,  were  called  Hyacin- 
thus,  also  increased  in  stature  and  comeliness. 
Wherever  Eugenia,  the  fair  rose,  appeared,  there 
on  her  right  and  left,  might  be  seen  also  the  two 
Hyacinths  rustling  and  gliding  gracefully  along  a 
few  steps  behind  her,  their  mistress  carrying  on  a 
disputation  with  them  over  her  shoulder  as  they 
walked. 

Never  had  a  fair  blue-stocking  two  better 
trained  associates.  They  never  differed  with  their 
mistress  and  always  allowed  her  to  remain  a  step 
in  advance  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  Thus 
she  always  got  the  better  of  an  argument  and  never 
stood  in  danger  of  saying  anything  more  stupid 
than  her  companions. 

[16] 


All  the  bookworms  of  Alexandria  composed 
odes  and  epigrams  upon  this  favorite  of  the  muses, 
and  the  complaisant  Hyacinths  had  to  copy  these 
verses  carefully  upon  golden  tablets  and  carry  them 
after  their  mistress. 

With  each  semester  she  grew  more  lovely  and 
learned,  and  already  she  was  exploring  the  intri- 
cate maze  of  the  Neoplatonic  philosophy  when  the 
young  proconsul,  Aquilinus,  conceived  an  ardent 
passion  for  her  and  asked  her  hand  in  marriage. 
Her  father,  however,  felt  so  deep  a  respect  for  his 
daughter's  learning  that  he  waived  his  right  as  a 
Roman  father  to  dispose  of  her  hand,  and,  not  pre- 
suming to  urge  her  in  the  slightest,  referred  the 
suitor  to  the  girl  herself,  though  personally  no  man 
would  have  been  more  gratifying  to  him  as  a  son- 
in-law  than  Aquilinus. 

Eugenia  herself  had  long  been  favorably  im- 
pressed with  Aquilinus,  the  stateliest,  most  re- 
spected, and  courteous  man  in  Alexandria,  and  one 
who,  moreover,  was  considered  to  have  a  fine  wit 
and  a  generous  heart. 

Nevertheless  she  received  the  devoted  consul 
with  perfect  coldness  and  dignity,  surrounded  by 
rolls  of  parchment,  the  two  Hyacinths  standing  be- 
hind her  chair.    One  of  these  wore  a  robe  of  azure, 

[17] 


the  other,  one  of  rose,  while  Eugenia  herself  was 
dressed  in  immaculate  white.  Thus  a  stranger 
might  have  been  in  doubt  whether  he  had  before 
him  three  fair,  tender  youths,  or  three  blooming 
maidens. 

Before  this  tribunal  the  worthy  Aquilinus 
stepped,  clad  in  a  simple,  dignified  toga,  anxious  to 
give  vent  to  his  passionate  emotion  in  tender  and 
loving  words.  But  when  Eugenia  showed  no  in- 
tent of  dismissing  her  companions,  he  took  a  seat 
opposite  her  and  broached  his  suit  in  few  straight- 
forward words,  restraining  himself  meanwhile,  for 
as  he  gazed  enraptured  upon  her  fair  face  and  form, 
a  great  desire  overcame  him  to  cast  himself  at  her 
feet. 

A  smile  dimpled  Eugenia's  cheek,  but  she  did 
not  even  as  much  as  redden,  so  completely  had  her 
great  learning  and  mental  discipline  checked  all 
the  finer  feelings  of  her  woman's  heart.  Assuming 
a  serious  and  profound  mien  she  answered  him 
thus: 

"Thy  desire,  O  Aquilinus,  to  have  me  to  wife 
does  me  great  honor,  but  I  cannot  allow  myself  to 
be  moved  to  a  rash  act  thereby,  for  such  it  would 
be,  if,  without  searching  our  hearts  we  should  fol- 
low the  promptings  of  the  first  impulse.    The  fore- 

[18] 


most  quality  that  I  should  desire  in  my  future  hus- 
band is  that  he  respect  my  scholarly  endeavors  and 
ambitions,  and  participate  in  them.  And  thus  I 
should  be  pleased  to  have  you  come  often  to  my 
house  to  emulate  me  and  my  companions  in 
striving  for  the  highest  knowledge.  In  this  way  we 
should  learn  whether  or  not  we  are  suited  to  each 
other,  and  after  some  time  spent  thus  we  may  be 
able  to  understand  each  other  as  is  becoming 
divinely  created  beings,  who  are  called  to  walk 
not  in  darkness  but  in  the  light." 

Not  without  a  secret  flush  of  anger,  but  with  a 
proud  dignity,  Aquilinus  replied  to  this  pompous 
speech:  "If  I  did  not  understand  and  appreciate 
you,  Eugenia,  I  should  not  desire  you  to  wife.  As 
for  me,  I  am  known  to  every  one  in  Rome  as  well 
as  in  this  province.  If,  therefore,  with  all  your 
learning  you  are  not  able  at  this  time  to  recognize 
me  for  what  I  am,  I  fear  you  never  will  be.  Nor 
am  I  here  with  the  intention  of  becoming  a  school- 
boy once  more,  but  to  take  a  wife.  As  for  these 
two  children,  it  would  be  my  first  desire,  should  you 
become  my  bride,  that  you  dismiss  them  and  re- 
turn them  to  their  parents,  to  whom  they  might  be 
of  some  use.  And  now  I  pray  you  answer  me  not 
as  a  sage,  but  as  a  wom.an  of  flesh  and  blood." 

[19] 


At  this,  a  flush  of  deepest  carnation  overspread 
the  face  and  neck  of  the  beautiful  philosopher  and 
with  a  heaving  bosom  she  replied;  "My  answer,  O 
Aquilinus,  is  ready,  since  I  perceive  from  your 
words  that  you  do  not  truly  love  me.  At  this  I  am 
not  grieved  but  it  does  offend  the  daughter  of  a 
noble  Roman  to  beji^  to. 

"I  never  lie,"  said  Aquilinus  sternly.  "Farewell." 

Eugenia  turned  away,  and  Aquilinus  strode  de- 
liberately from  the  house.  She  was  about  to  re- 
sume her  studies  as  though  nothing  had  happened 
but  the  written  page  became  blurred  before  her 
eyes.  She  was  unable  to  go  on  and  asked  the  Hy- 
acinths to  read  to  her.  But  in  vain ;  her  blood  was 
stirred  and  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

For  if  she  had,  up  to  this  time,  looked  upon  the 
consul  as  the  only  acceptable  man  among  all  of  her 
suitors,  should  she  decide  to  wed,  now  he  had  be- 
come to  her  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  that  allowed  her 
neither  peace  nor  rest. 

Aquilinus  continued  quietly  to  perform  his 
duties,  reproaching,  meanwhile,  in  secret,  his  own 
foolish  heart  which  would  not  forget  the  pedantic 
beauty. 

Nearly  two  years  passed.  Eugenia  had  become 
more  and  more  a  rernarkable  and  brilliant  person- 

t  20  ] 


age,  while  the  Hyacinths  had  grown  to  be  two  great 
louts  whose  chins  showed  the  first  symptoms  of  a 
beard.  Although  people  now  began  to  pass  remarks 
about  this  unusual  companionship,  and  instead  of 
the  complimentary  epigrams  of  former  days,  satiric 
ones  began  to  appear,  Eugenia  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  dismiss  her  body-guard.  It  seemed  impera- 
tive to  retain  it,  for  had  not  Aquilinus  seriously 
objected  to  it? 

Aquilinus,  however,  continued  quietly  on  his 
course  and  seemed  to  give  no  further  heed  to  her. 
Neither  did  he  pay  attentions  to  any  other  woman. 
He  seemed  no  longer  to  think  of  marriage,  and  peo- 
ple began  to  find  fault,  saying  so  high  an  official 
ought  not  to  remain  unwed. 

All  the  more  stubbornly  did  Eugenia  resolve  not 
to  give  up  her  companions,  who  seemed  so  objec- 
tionable to  him,  for  she  was  determined  not  to  ap- 
pear desirous  of  pleasing  him.  Moreover,  she 
loved  to  do  as  she  wished,  in  defiance  of  custom  and 
public  sentiment,  and  to  preserve  the  consciousness 
of  a  pure  life,  under  conditions  which  for  other 
women  might  have  been  dangerous  and  even  ruin- 
ous. Vagaries  of  this  sort  were  quite  common  with 
women  of  that  day  and  age. 

But    Eugenia    was    not   happy.      She   had   her 

[21] 


scholarly  companions  philosophise  on  heaven  and 
earth  and  hell,  onlj/  suddenly  to  interrupt  them, 
in  order  that  they  might  accompany  her  out  into 
the  fields  for  miles  and  miles,  without  even  vouch- 
safing them  a  word. 

One  morning  she  decided  to  visit  a  near-by 
country-seat.  She  herself  drbve,  and  was  in  a 
charming  mood.  It  was  a  clear  spring  day  and  the 
air  was  laden  with  the  scent  of  balsam.  The  Hya- 
cinths were  basking  in  her  good  humor,  and  thus 
they  passed  through  a  suburb  just  as  the  Christians 
were  holding  their  Sabbath  services.  From  mon- 
astery and  chapel  there  resounded  divine  song. 
Eugenia  reined  in  her  horse  to  listen,  and  heard  the 
words  of  the  psalm :  "As  the  hart  panteth  after  the 
water  brooks,  so  panteth  my  soul  after  thee,  O  God. 
My  soul  thirsteth  for  God,  for  the  living  God." 

At  the  sound  of  these  words,  coming  as  they  did 
from  pious,  humble  lips,  her  proud  soul  gave  way, 
her  heart  was  transfixed,  and  seemed  suddenly  to 
knov/  exactly  what  it  desired.  Slowly,  without 
speaking,  she  continued  on  the  way  to  her  country 
villa.  Here  she  clothed  herself  in  male  attire,  and, 
calling  the  Hyacinths,  left  the  house,  without  hav- 
ing been  seen  by  the  servants. 

She  returned  to  the  monastery,  knocked  at  the 

[22] 


gate  and  introduced  herself  and  her  companions  as 
young  men  who  wished  to  be  accepted  into  the 
monastery  as  m.onks;  for,  said  she,  *'We  desire  to 
separate  ourselves  from  the  world  and  live  for 
God."  She  was  well  schooled  in  theological  lore 
and  answered  the  questions  the  abbot  put  to  them 
so  well  that  he  accepted  the  three  of  them  into  the 
cloister  and  had  them  invested  with  the  monastic 
garb. 

Eugenia  became  a  handsome,  almost  angelic 
monk  and  was  called  Brother  Eugenius.  The  Hya- 
cinths were  likewise,  willingly  or  unwillingly,  trans- 
formed into  holy  brothers,  for  they  had  not  even 
as  much  as  been  asked  whether  they  wished  for  the 
change,  and  had  long  ago  become  accustomed  to 
live  only  by  and  through  the  wish  of  their  feminine 
example  and  mistress.  Still  they  took  kindly  to  the 
monastic  life,  since  they  enjoyed  more  leisure  than 
heretofore,  were  no  longer  obliged  to  study,  and 
were  able  to  give  themselves  up  entirely  to  a  pas- 
sive form  of  obedience. 

Brother  Eugenius,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not 
grow  lax  in  his  zeal,  and  he  became  a  renowned 
ecclesiastic,  with  a  face  white  as  marble  but  with 
glowing  eyes  and  the  port  of  an  archangel.  He  was 
the  means  of  converting  many  heathen ;  he  cared  for 

[23] 


the  sick  and  suffering,  searched  deeply  into  the 
Scriptures,  preached  in  golden  tones,  clear  as  a  bell, 
and  upon  the  death  of  the  abbot  was  chosen  as  his 
successor,  thus  becoming  the  superior  of  seventy 
monks,  great  and  small. 

Now  when  Eugenia  and  her  companions  had  dis-  ^ 
appeared  so  mysteriously,  and  were  nowhere  to  be 
found,  her  father  inquired  of  an  oracle  what  had 
become  of  his  daughter,  and  learned  in  answer  that 
she  had  been  caught  up  by  the  gods  and  placed 
among  the  stars.  Straightway  the  heathen  priests 
heralded  the  event  abroad  in  order  to  boast  a 
miracle  before  the  Christians,  while  the  latter  had 
in  reality  derived  the  good  from  it,  and  had,  so  to 
speak,  the  hare  already  in  their  kitchen.  The 
heathen  priests  went  further,  and  even  designated  a 
star,  with  two  lesser  satellites,  in  the  heavens  as  the 
new  constellation.  The  good  people  of  Alexandria 
came  out  on  the  streets  and  the  house-tops  to  peer 
into  the  heavens,  and  many  a  man  who  had  form- 
erly seen  Eugenia  on  her  walks,  now  revelled  in 
the  reminiscence  of  her  beauty  and  fell  in  love  with  " 
her  as  he  gazed  with  tear-dimmed  eyes  upon  the 
star  that  twinkled  so  serenely  in  the  billowy  vault. 

Aquilinus,  too,  peered  into  the  heavens,  but  he 
shook  his  head  and  failed  to  fall  in  with  the  con- 

[24] 

\ 
I 


ventional  belief.  All  the  more  firmly,  however,  did 
the  father  of  the  deified  girl  believe  in  it.  He  took 
not  a  little  pride  in  the  fable,  and  with  the  aid  of 
the  priests  had  it  decreed  that  a  statue  should  be 
erected  to  her  memory  and  divine  honors  be  shown 
her.  Aquilinus,  from  whom  governmental  permis- 
sion to  this  end  had  to  be  obtained,  gave  it  on  con- 
dition that  the  statue  be  made  in  the  very  figure 
and  image  of  the  apotheosized  girl.  This  was  an 
easy  matter,  since  there  were  extant  a  great  number 
of  busts  and  likenesses  of  her.  A  marble  statue 
v/as  accordingly  erected  in  the  outer  court  of  the 
Temple  of  Minerva,  a  statue  that  the  artist  needed 
not  to  be  ashamed  of,  since  it  was,  in  spite  of  its 
realism,  ideal,  and  a  work  of  art  as  to  figure,  posture 
and  garments. 

When  this  piece  of  news  reached  the  cloister, 
the  seventy  monks  were  not  a  little  put  out  over 
the  card  the  heathen  priests  had  played,  in  the  erec- 
tion of  the  new  idol  and  the  impious  deification  of 
a  mortal  woman. 

Most  of  all  did  they  have  their  fling  at  the 
woman  herself,  calling  her  a  jade  and  a  mounte- 
bank, and  during  the  noonday  hour  they  carried  on 
an  unusual  noise  and  bustle.  The  Hyacinths,  who 
had  become  good-natured  little  dominies  and  who 

[25] 


bore  the  abbot's  secret  buried  in  their  breasts, 
looked  significantly  at  him.  He,  however,  beckoned 
them  to  be  quiet,  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  noisy  rant, 
tolerating  it  as  a  punishment  for  his  former  heath- 
enish mode  of  life. 

But  the  following  night,  Eugenia  arose  from  her 
couch,  and  armed  with  a  heavy  hammer,  left  the 
cloister  softly,  to  destroy  the  statue.  She  took  her 
way  to  the  marble-studded  portion  of  the  city, 
where  the  temples  and  public  buildings  stood,  and 
where  she  had  passed  the  years  of  her  childhood. 

Not  a  soul  was  astir  in  the  quiet  world  of 
granite.  As  the  girlish  monk  ascended  the  steps  of 
the  temple,  the  moon,  rising  over  the  shadows  of  the 
city,  cast  its  silvery  light  upon  the  columns  of  the 
outer  court.  There  Eugenia  caught  sight  of  her 
statue.  White  as  the  fallen  snow,  of  wonderful 
grace  and  beauty,  the  delicate  folds  of  the  drapery 
hanging  chastely  about  the  shoulders,  it  stood,  with 
fine  spiritual  expression,  and  lips  ready  to  smile. 

The  Christian  maiden  approached  curiously, 
v/ith  hammer  raised  in  hand.  As  she  surveyed  the 
statue  close  by,  a  sweet  thrill  coursed  through  her 
soul.  The  hammer  fell  to  the  ground,  and  she  gave 
herself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  former  self  in 
silence. 

[26] 


As  she  did  so,  a  sense  of  bitter  melancholy  over- 
came her,  a  feeling  as  though  she  had  been  expelled 
from  a  beautiful  world  and  were  astray  in  the 
desert,  a  hapless  shade.  For  though  the  statue  was 
idealized,  it  expressed  Eugenia's  one-time  true  self 
all  the  more  faithfully,  the  real  self  which  her  book- 
ishness  had  only  temporarily  eclipsed.  It  was 
therefore  not  mere  vanity  that  brought  her  to 
recognize  her  better  self  now  in  the  magic  moon- 
light, and  that  awakened  in  her  the  feeling  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  man's  deter- 
mined step,  and  involuntarily  she  concealed  herself 
in  the  shade  of  a  marble  column,  from  where  she 
saw  the  form  of  Aquilinus  approaching.  He  walked 
up  to  the  statue,  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  finally 
laying  one  arm  about  the  girlish  shoulders,  softly 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  the  marble  lips.  Thereupon 
wrapping  himself  in  his  toga  he  walked  slowly 
away,  looking  back  more  than  once,  as  he  did  so, 
upon  the  resplendent  form  of  white. 

Eugenia  found  herself  trembling  violently. 
Angry  and  excited,  she  strove  to  collect  herself  and 
with  raised  hammer  stepped  up  to  the  statue  to  put 
an  end  to  this  idolatry  forever.  But  instead  of 
shattering  the  beautiful  head,  she  burst  into  tears, 

[27] 


and,  like  Aquilinus,  she  too  pressed  a  kiss  upon  its 
lips.  Then  she  hastened  quickly  away  as  she  heard 
afar  the  step  of  the  night-guard  approaching. 

With  heaving  breast  she  stole  back  to  her  cell. 
That  long  night,  until  the  sun  arose,  she  slept  not, 
and  during  the  matins,  which  she  overslept,  she 
dreamed  of  many  things  which  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  morning  prayers. 

The  monks,  believing  that  their  abbot  needed 
sleep  because  of  protracted  spiritual  vigils,  allowed 
him  to  slumber  on  until  at  last  they  found  it  neces- 
sary to  rouse  him  on  account  of  a  special  emer- 
gency. 

An  aristocratic  widow  who  was  ill  and  in  need 
of  spiritual  aid  had  sent  word  that  she  desired  the 
ministration  and  advice  of  the  abbot,  Eugenius,  for 
v/hose  zeal  and  high  personality  she  had  long  felt  a 
deep  reverence.  The  monks  did  not  wish  to  allow 
so  good  an  opportunity  of  enhancing  the  honor  of 
the  church  to  pass  unheeded,  and  they  therefore 
hastened  to  awake  the  abbot. 

Half  asleep  and  with  flushed  cheeks,  as  they  had 
not  seen  her  for  many  a  day,  she  started  on  her 
way,  her  thoughts  tarrying  more  with  her  morn- 
ing dreams  and  the  columns  of  the  temple  than  on 
the  business  in  hand. 

[28] 


Thus  she  entered  the  house  of  the  heathen  sup- 
pliant, was  led  to  a  chamber  and  left  alone  with 
her.  A  beautiful  woman  of  less  than  thirty  sum- 
mers lay  upon  a  couch,  but,  strange  to  say,  looking 
not  at  all  like  an  ill  or  contrite  person,  but  aglow 
with  the  proud  joy  of  life.  Scarcely  could  she  con- 
trol her  feelings  until  the  supposed  monk  had,  at 
her  request,  taken  a  seat  by  her  bedside,  when  she 
seized  both  his  white  hands,  pressed  her  forehead 
upon  them  and  covered  them  with  kisses. 

Eugenia,  who  was  occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts,  paid  little  heed  to  the  passionate  bearing 
of  the  woman,  and  regarding  her  actions  as  a  token 
of  humility  and  spiritual  contrition,  made  no  at- 
tempt to  restrain  her.  Encouraged  by  this,  the  fair 
heathen  threw  her  arms  about  Eugenia's  neck. 

Utterly  dazed,  Eugenia  recovered  from  her 
absent-mindedness.  At  the  same  time  the  woman 
poured  into  the  ears  of  the  terrified  monk  a  perfect 
torrent  of  words,  confessing  her  love  and  seeking 
in  all  manner  of  ways  to  convince  him  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  return  it. 

Eugenia  gathered  herself  up  in  towering  rage 
and  set  the  pagan  siren  severely  to  rights,  retort- 
ing with  fearful  imprecations,  such  as  only  a  monk 
has  at  his  command. 

[29] 


When  the  woman  saw  her  plan  foiled,  she  sud- 
denly changed  her  tactics.  Like  a  tigress  she 
sprang  towards  Eugenia,  raising  so  murderous  a 
commotion  that  her  maids  rushed  in  from  all  di- 
rections. 

**Help !  Help !  This  man  has  assaulted  me,"  she 
cried,  suddenly  releasing  her  hold  on  Eugenia,  who 
arose  breathless  in  confusion  and  fright.  The 
maids  took  to  screaming  even  more  loudly  than 
their  mistress,  and,  running  hither  and  thither,  at- 
tracted male  help  by  their  cries.  Eugenia  was  un- 
able to  speak  a  word  for  fear,  and  fled  from  the 
house  filled  with  shame  and  disgust,  pursued  by  the 
din  and  curses  of  the  mad  mob. 

Nor  did  the  malicious  widow  hesitate  to  go 
directly  to  the  consul,  Aquilinus,  followed  by  a 
goodly  retinue,  there  to  accuse  the  monk  of  base 
misdemeanor.  She  told  how  he  had  in  his  hypo- 
critical manner  entered  her  house,  first  to  impor- 
tune her  by  attempting  to  convert  her  to  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  and,  having  failed  in  this,  to  assault  her 
flagrantly. 

Her  entire  retinue  attested  the  truth  of  these 
assertions,  whereupon  Aquilinus  had  the  cloister 
immediately  surrounded  by  troops,  and  the  abbot, 
with  the  monks,  brought  before  him  for  trial. 

[  30  ] 


"So  this  is  the  sort  of  work  you  carry  on,  is 
it?"  he  asked  them  in  his  severest  tones.  "Do  you 
already  feel  your  importance  so  much  that  you, 
whom  we  have  barely  come  to  tolerate,  insult  our 
women  and  go  about  like  ravenous  wolves?  Did 
your  Master,  whom  I  honor  more  than  you  do,  ye 
hypocrites, — did  He  teach  you  to  do  such  deeds? 
You  are  a  motley  assemblage  and  a  pack  of  ras- 
cals. Defend  yourselves,  if  you  can,  against  the 
accusation.'* 

The  shameless  woman  now  repeated  her  story, 
which  she  punctuated  with  hypocritical  sighs  and 
tears.  When  she  had  finished  and  had  again  veiled 
herself  with  great  propriety,  the  monks  looked  in 
fear  at  their  abbot,  whose  virtue  they  never 
doubted,  and  raised  up  their  voices  to  deny  the  false 
accusation. 

On  the  other  hand,  not  only  the  followers  of 
the  lying  woman,  but  also  a  number  of  neighbors 
and  passers-by  who  had  seen  the  abbot  flying  from 
the  house  in  shame  and  confusion,  and  who  nat- 
urally believed  him  guilty,  emphatically  attested  his 
guilt,  thus  silencing  the  poor  monks  by  great  odds. 

The  monks  looked  again  upon  their  abbot,  this 
time  somewhat  in  doubt,  reminding  him  that  if  he 
was  guilty  the  punishment  of  God  would  speedily 

[31] 


follow,  just  as  they  even  now  gave  him  over  to 
worldly  justice. 

At  this  all  eyes  were  directed  upon  Eugenia, 
who  stood  forsaken  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  She 
had  been  found  weeping  in  her  cell  when  she  was 
taken  into  custody  along  with  the  monks,  and 
during  the  entire  trial  had  stood  with  eyes  down- 
cast, her  cowl  drawn  far  down  over  her  face.  She 
was  in  a  serious  predicament.  If  she  preserved  the 
secret  of  her  identity  and  her  sex,  she  fell  a  victim 
to  the  false  accusation.  If  she  disclosed  it,  she 
would  bring  down  a  greater  storm  of  disapproval 
and  certain  ruin  upon  the  cloister,  for  a  monastery 
that  had  as  its  abbot  a  beautiful  young  woman 
could  not  escape  unfortunate  suspicion  and  ridicule 
at  the  hands  of  the  evil-disposed  heathen  round 
about. 

Now,  this  fear  and  hesitation  would  not  have 
agitated  her  had  she  still  been,  according  to  monas- 
tic notion,  of  an  undivided  heart.  But  since  the 
past  night,  doubt  had  entered  her  soul,  and  the 
meeting  with  the  wicked  woman  had  only  served 
to  confuse  her  still  more.  She  had  not,  conse- 
quently, the  courage  to  take  a  decided  stand  and 
bring  about  a  miraculous  solution. 

But  when  Aquilinus  requested  her  to  speak,  she 

[32] 


remembered  his  former  affection  for  her,  and  trust- 
ing to  this,  bethought  herself  of  a  way  of  escape. 
In  soft  and  gentle  tones  she  pleaded  not  guilty  to 
the  charge  and  offered  to  prove  her  innocence  to 
the  consul,  if  he  would  grant  her  a  private  au- 
dience. 

Something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  moved 
Aquilinus.  He  granted  her  the  desired  interview, 
had  her  taken  to  his  residence,  and  was  closeted 
there  with  her  alone. 

Eugenia  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  threw  back  her 
cowl  and  said:  "I  am  Eugenia,  whom  thou  once 
didst  desire  to  wife." 

He  recognized  her  at  once  and  was  convinced 
that  it  was  she.  At  the  same  time  a  great  storm 
of  wrath  and  jealousy  arose  in  his  bosom  at  the 
thought  that  his  old  love  had  lived  for  so  long  a 
time  among  a  company  of  monks. 

He  restrained  himself,  and  while  eyeing  her  with 
close  scrutiny  feigned  disbelief  in  her  words,  say- 
ing: "You  do  indeed  look  very  much  like  that 
erratic  girl.  But  what  is  that  to  me  ?  What  I  want 
to  know  is  about  your  affair  with  this  widow." 

Eugenia  now  related  the  entire  story,  timidly 
and  anxiously.  From  the  manner  of  her  recital, 
Aquilinus  saw  at  once  the  falsehood  and  the  base- 

[33] 


ness  of  the  accusation.  Nevertheless,  he  replied 
with  apparent  calmness:  ''And  if  you  are  Eugenia, 
as  you  say,  how  did  you  become  a  monk,  how  was 
it  possible,  and  what  was  your  object  in  so  doing?" 

At  these  words  she  blushed  deeply  and  cast 
down  her  eyes  in  embarrassment.  And  still  it 
seemed  not  unpleasant  to  her  to  be  there  and  to 
be  able  to  converse  with  a  good  old  friend  concern- 
ing herself  and  her  past  life.  Without  hesitation 
she  related  sim.ply  and  sincerely  all  that  had  hap- 
pened to  her  since  her  disappearance,  taking  good 
care,  however,  not  even  so  much  as  to  mention  the 
two  Hyacinths. 

Her  story  pleased  him  not  a  little,  and  more- 
over, it  was  becoming  more  difBcult  for  him  with 
every  passing  moment  to  conceal  his  joy  at  finding 
his  long-lost  love.  But  he  controlled  his  feelings 
and  resolved  to  learn  from  her  conduct  in  this 
whole  affair  whether  she  was  still  the  modest  and 
chaste  Eugenia  of  former  days. 

With  this  object  in  view  he  said :  "Your  story 
is  a  very  good  one,  yet  I  consider  the  girl  whom 
you  allege  you  are  incapable  of  such  escapades, 
despite  her  former  caprices.  The  true  Eugenia 
would  at  least  have  preferred  to  become  a  nun. 
Why  in  the  world  should  a  woman,  no  matter  how 

[34] 


learned  and  pious  she  might  be,  desire  to  don  a 
monk's  cowl  and  live  with  a  company  of  seventy 
monks?  And  so  I  shall  continue  to  consider  you  a 
smooth,  beardless,  jolly  old  dog  of  an  imposter  in 
whom  I  shall  in  no  wise  put  faith.  And  besides, 
the  Eugenia  you  speak  of  has  been  declared  divine 
and  is  said  to  have  been  placed  in  the  heavens 
among  the  constellations.  Her  consecrated  statue 
stands  in  the  temple,  and  you  will  fare  ill  indeed  if 
you  continue  in  your  sacrilegious  declaration. 

"The  statue  you  speak  of  was  kissed  by  a  cer- 
tain man  the  past  night,"  replied  Eugenia  in  a  low 
voice,  casting  an  inquisitive  glance  at  Aquilinus, 
who  stood  astounded  and  gazed  upon  her  as  upon 
one  endowed  with  superhuman  knowledge.  How 
can  the  same  man  be  so  cruel  as  to  torture  the 
original  of  the  statue?"  .  ^ 

Aquilinus  fought  down  his  confusion,  seemed 
not  to  hear  the  words  and  continued  coldly  and 
severely:  "In  short,  for  the  honor  of  the  poor 
monks,  who  seem  innocent,  I  can  and  will  not  be- 
lieve that  you  are  a  woman.  Prepare  for  death. 
Your  statements  have  failed  to  satisfy  me." 

"Then  Heaven  help  me!"  cried  Eugenia,  and 
sank  to  the  floor  like  a  white  rose  broken  by  the 
storm.     Aquilinus   caught  her    up    in    his    arms, 

[35] 


pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  while  his  hot  tears  fell 
upon  her  beautiful  head.  He  kissed  her  lips  I  dare 
say  three  or  four  times  and  left  the  room,  locking 
the  door  behind  him. 

Bearing  Eugenia's  cowl  in  his  hand,  he  took 
himself  back  to  the  waiting  crowd,  whom  he  ad- 
dressed thus:  "This  is  indeed  a  strange  affair. 
You  monks  are  guiltless  and  may  return  to  your 
cloister.  Your  abbot  was  a  demon  who  had  planned 
to  destroy  you.  Here,  take  his  cowl  with  you  and 
preserve  it  as  a  memento.  After  the  evil  spirit  had, 
in  my  sight,  transformed  his  shape  most  incredibly, 
he  dissolved  into  thin  air  before  my  very  eyes  and 
disappeared.  And  this  woman  who  sought  to  de- 
stroy you,  through  the  demon,  has  thereby  fallen 
under  suspicion  of  witchcraft,  and  shall  be  cast  into 
prison.  Now  all  of  you  betake  yourselves  home  and 
be  of  good  cheer." 

All  were  astonished  at  this  speech,  and  looked 
in  fear  at  the  garment  of  the  demon.  The  widow 
turned  pale  and  covered  her  face,  thereby  giving 
sufficient  evidence  of  her  guilt. 

The  good  monks  rejoiced  at  their  victory,  and 
wended  their  way  gratefully  homeward  carrying 
the  cowl,  but  never  dream.ing  how  sweet  a  kernel 
had  but  just  been  enclosed  within  it.  ; 

[36] 


The  widow  was  led  to  prison,  and  Aquilinus 
with  his  most  trusted  servant  travelled  the  city 
over,  calling  at  the  shops  dealing  in  women's  cloth- 
ing and  buying  a  large  amount  of  the  most  costly 
apparel,  which  w^as  carried  by  the  slave  to  the  con- 
sul's house  as  secretly  and  quickly  as  possible. 

Noiselessly  Aquilinus  stepped  into  the  room  in 
which  he  had  left  Eugenia.  There  she  lay  quite 
charmingly  upon  a  divan,  sleeping  soundly,  as 
might  be  expected  of  one  recuperating  from  great 
hardship.  As  he  sat  by  her  side  softly  stroking 
her  close-cropped  hair  and  laughing  to  himself  at 
the  sight  of  her  monk's  tonsure,  which  was  partly 
hidden  by  a  black  velvet  cap,  she  awoke  and  gazed 
about  her  with  wondering  eyes. 

"Will  you  be  my  wife?"  he  pleaded  in  gentle 
tones.  Whereupon  she  answered  neither  yea  nor 
nay,  but  hid  her  blushes  in  the  folds  of  the  purple 
robe  in  which  she  lay  wrapped. 

Then  Aquilinus  brought  the  garments  and  jew- 
els, everything  that  a  gentlewoman  of  that  day 
might  need  to  clothe  herself  from  head  to  toe. 
Thereupon  he  left  the  room. 

After  sunset  of  the  same  day  he  drove  with  her, 
accompanied  only  by  a  trusted  servant,  to  one  of 
his  country  villas,  which  lay  charmingly  isolated 

[37] 


in  the  shade  of  a  great  wood.  Here  they  were 
quietly  wedded,  and  although  love  was  late  in 
coming,  the  time  did  not  seem  lost  to  them  be- 
cause of  thankful  hearts  for  the  great  happiness 
they  found  in  each  other's  presence. 

Aquilinus  spent  his  time  in  the  performance  of 
his  civic  duties,  hastening  away,  however,  at  the 
close  of  the  day  to  his  villa  and  his  young  wife, 
with  the  fastest  of  steeds.  Only  on  stormy  or 
rainy  days,  now  and  then,  was  he  fond  of  hasten- 
ing home  unannounced  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  to 
cheer  his  love,  who  in  true  housewifely  fashion 
now  gave  herself  up  to  the  study  of  married  life 
and  its  pleasures  with  the  same  ardor  that  she  had 
formerly  bestowed  on  the  study  of  philosophy  and 
Christian  asceticism. 

When  her  hair  had  again  grown  to  its  natural 
lengtTi,  Aquilinus  took  his  wife  back  to  Alexandria, 
and  adducing  a  fitting  explanation  and  story,  re- 
stored her  to  her  astonished  parents, — whereupon 
they  celebrated  a  splendid  wedding. 

Her  father  was  surprised,  to  be  sure,  to  find  in 
his  daughter,  instead  of  an  Immortal  and  a  heav- 
enly constellation,  a  simple,  loving  housewife,  and 
he  witnessed  the  removal  of  the  consecrated  statue 
with  some  regret.    However,  the  joy  of  finding  his 

[38] 


daughter  in  the  body,  more  beautiful  and  lovely 
than  ever,  was  uppermost. 

Aquilinus  had  the  statue  placed  in  the  most 
splendid  apartment  of  his  residence,  but  refrained 
henceforth  from  kissing  it,  since  he  now  had  the 
living  original  close  at  hand. 

After  Eugenia  had  sufficiently  acquainted  her- 
self with  the  ins  and  outs  of  wedded  life,  she 
turned  this  knowledge  to  good  account  in  that  she 
converted  her  husband  to  Christianity,  and  con- 
tinuing always  in  the  bonds  of  tenderest  love,  she 
rested  not  until  Aquilinus  had  publicly  confessed 
to  her  faith. 

The  legend  now  goes  on  to  relate  how  the  whole 
family  returned  to  Rome  at  the  time  when  the  anti- 
Christian  Valerian  had  come  to  the  throne,  and 
how  during  the  persecutions  of  the  Christians, 
Eugenia  became  famed  as  a  standard-bearer  and 
martyr  of  the  faith,  and  proved  the  full  strength 
of  her  mind  and  heart. 

Her  influence  over  Aquilinus  was  so  great  that 
he  had  even  permitted  the  two  Hyacinths  to  ac- 
company her  to  Rome,  where  they,  too,  were 
crowned  wuth  the  crown  of  martyrdom.  Their  in- 
tercession is  said  to  be  beneficial  for  indolent  girj 
pupils  who  have  fallen  behind  in  their  studies. 

[39] 


THE  VIRGIN  AND  THE  EVIL  ONE 

Friend,  rise  and  look  about; 

Satan  attempts  each  hour, 
And  should  he  find  thee  out, 

Then  thou  art  in  his  poiuer. 

—Angelus  Silesius. 

QOUNT  GIBIZO  possessed  a  very  beautiful 
wife,  a  magnificent  castle  and  so  many 
great  estates  that  he  was  considered  one  of 
the  richest  and  happiest  lords  of  the  country.  That 
he  appreciated  this  reputation  is  shown  by  the 
Christian  benevolence  which  he  exercised  to  a  high 
degree  as  well  as  by  his  keeping  a  brilliant  circle  of 
friends  of  whom  his  good  and  beautiful  wife,  Ber- 
trade,  was  the  most  shining  luminary. 

He  founded  and  endowed  cloisters  and  hospices, 
beautified  churches  and  chapels,  and  on  high  fes- 
tival days  fed  hundreds  of  the  poor.  In  truth,  he 
was  never  content  unless  dozens  of  guests  were 
daily  and  hourly  present  at  the  castle  to  spend 
their  time  in  feasting,  and  in  singing  the  praises  of 
their  lord  and  master.  Unless  thus  surrounded,  his 
dwelling,  however  magnificent  it  was,  seemed  to 
him  lonely  and  forsaken. 

But  with  such  prodigal  liberality  even  great 
wealth  must  finally  be  exhausted,  and  thus  it  hap- 

[40] 


pened  that  the  count  was  obliged  to  sell  his  estates' 
one  by  one  to  satisfy  his  love  of  great  munificence. 
But  the  deeper  he  was  plunged  into  debt  the  more 
did  he  increase  his  gifts  and  his  feasts  to  the  poor, 
seeking  in  this  way  once  more  to  win  the  favor  of 
heaven. 

At  last  he  was  thoroughly  impoverished,  and  his 
now  desolate  castle  was  fast  crumbling  into  ruins. 
Invalid,  meaningless  deeds  and  charters  which  he 
still  continued  to  write  and  bestow  upon  his 
friends,  as  in  his  days  of  plenty,  brought  him  only 
scorn  and  ridicule.  And  if  peradventure  he  was 
able  to  entice  a  tattered  beggar  to  his  castle,  the 
mendicant  cast  the  dish  of  poor  soup  that  was 
offered  him  disdainfully  at  his  feet  and  left  the 
domain. 

In  these  troublous  times  the  beauty  of  his  wife, 
Bertrade,  alone,  remained  unchanged;  indeed,  the 
more  desolate  the  house,  the  more  resplendent  was 
she.  Yea,  she  even  seemed  to  grow  in  grace,  love- 
liness, and  goodness  of  heart,  the  poorer  Gibizo 
became,  until  she  seemed  the  embodiment  of  all  the 
blessings  of  heaven,  and  thousands  of  men  envied 
the  count  this  one  remaining  treasure. 

Gibizo  alone  took  no  note  of  this.  The  more 
Bertrade  sought  to  encourage  him  and  to  lighten 

[  41  ] 


nis  poverty,  the  more  did  he  fail  to  appreciate  her. 
Finally  he  lapsed  into  a  bitter  and  stubborn  melan- 
choly and  withdrew  entirely  from  the  society  of 
men. 

Now,  on  a  beautiful  Easter  morning,  when  in 
years  gone  by  Gibizo  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
throngs  of  happy  people  streaming  to  his  castle, 
the  shame  of  it  all  fell  especially  heavy  on  his 
heart.  He  would  not  even  attend  divine  worship, 
and  knew  not  how  to  spend  the  festive  holiday- 
time. 

Smiling  through  her  tears,  the  wife  pleaded  with 
him  in  vain  not  to  allow  himself  to  be  crushed  by 
misfortune,  but  to  accompany  her  undismayed  to 
church.  He  thrust  her  aside  almost  rudely  and  hied 
him  away  to  the  woods  until  the  Easter-tide  should 
have  passed. 

Over  hill  and  dale  he  wandered  until  he  came 
to  a  primeval  wilderness  where  great  shaggy  firs 
enclosed  a  lake,  upon  the  surface  of  which  the 
mighty  tree-trunks  were  mirrored  at  full  length. 
The  scene  was  dark  and  sombre;  the  earth  about 
the  lake  was  overgrown  with  fantastic,  fringy 
mosses,  so  soft  and  heavy  that  they  did  not  resound 
to  the  tread. 

Here  Gibizo  sat  down  to  mutter  against  God. 

[42] 


His  misfortune  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  He 
could  no  longer  even  stay  his  hunger,  although  he 
had  joyfully  fed  thousands  in  his  time — for  all  of 
which  God  seemed  to  have  repaid  him  with  the 
scorn  and  the  ingratitude  of  the  world. 

Suddenly  he  saw  in  the  middle  of  the  lake  the 
tall  form  of  a  man  in  a  boat.  The  lake  was  small; 
he  could  easily  survey  its  entire  extent,  and  he 
could  not  understand  whence  the  boatman  had  so 
suddenly  come.  But  there  he  was,  and  with  one 
stroke  of  the  oar  he  landed  the  craft  at  the  feet  of 
the  knight.  Before  the  latter  was  able  to  utter  a 
word  the  stranger  inquired  why  he  appeared  so 
gloomy. 

In  spite  of  the  strikingly  splendid  appearance  of 
the  stranger,  there  was  an  expression  of  deep  un- 
happiness  about  his  mouth  and  eyes  that  awakened 
Gibizo's  confidence  and  led  him  to  pour  into  the 
willing  ear  all  his  misfortunes  and  his  pent-up 
anger. 

"What  a  fool  you  are,"  cried  the  stranger. 
"Why,  you  possess  a  treasure,  greater  than  all  you 
have  lost!  If  I  had  your  wife,  all  the  riches,  the 
churches,  the  cloisters,  and  all  the  beggars  in  the 
world  might  be  hanged!" 

"Give  me  these  again,  and,  for  all  I  care,  you 

[43] 


may  have  my  wife,"  retorted  Gibizo  with  a  bitter 
laugh.  Whereupon  the  stranger  replied  in  a  trice: 
"Good,  it's  a  bargain!  Look  beneath  your  wife's 
pillow;  there  you  will  find  money  enough  to  last 
you  your  entire  lifetime ;  enough  to  build  a  cloister 
every  day  and  to  feed  a  thousand  people,  should  you 
live  even  to  be  a  hundred  years  old.  In  return, 
bring  your  wife  to  this  spot  without  fail  on  Wal- 
purgis-night.'* 

At  these  words  there  shot  out  from  his  dark 
eyes  so  fiery  a  gleam  that  it  extended  like  two  red 
streaks  of  light  over  the  count's  shoulder  and  shone 
on  the  moss  and  the  trunks  of  the  firs  beyond. 

And  now  Gibizo  understood  with  whom  he  was 
dealing;  yet  he  accepted  the  offer. 

The  stranger  again  plied  his  oar  and  made  for 
the  middle  of  the  lake,  where  man  and  boat  sank 
out  of  sight  with  a  din  like  the  clanging  of  many 
brazen  bells. 

Chilled  with  fear,  Gibizo  hastened  by  the  short- 
est route  to  his  castle,  where  he  at  once  inspected 
Bertrade's  couch,  and  there,  beneath  her  pillow,  he 
found  an  old  book,  which  he  was  unable  to  read. 
But  as  he  turned  the  pages,  pieces  of  gold  fell  out. 
No  sooner  had  he  discovered  this  than  he  hastened 
away  to  the  deepest  dungeon  of  the  castle-tower, 

[44] 


and  there,  all  by  himself,  during  the  Easter  holi- 
days, he  leaved  out  of  the  interesting  book  a  pile  of 
gold  sufficient  for  all  of  his  present  needs. 

Once  more  Gibizo  made  his  appearance  among 
his  fellows.  He  redeemed  all  of  his  lost  possessions, 
called  in  workmen  to  renovate  and  remodel  his 
castle  on  a  grander  scale  than  ever,  and  granted 
largesses  on  all  hands  like  a  prince  who  has  just 
come  to  his  regency. 

The  greatest  of  his  beneficences  was  the  found- 
ing of  a  magnificent  abbey,  planned  to  accommo- 
date five  hundred  of  the  most  pious  and  celebrated 
monks,  virtually  a  city  of  saints  and  scribes,  in  the 
midst  of  which  he  intended  his  own  final  resting 
place  to  be.  The  latter  plan  he  deemed  wise  in  view 
of  the  welfare  of  his  soul,  but  since  he  had  made 
other  plans  for  his  wife's  future,  a  sepulchre  for  her 
was  not  provided. 

^^^^t  noon  of  the  day  before  Walpurgis  he  ordered 
tw-iiorses  saddled,  and  requesting  his  wife  to 
mount  her  white  palfrey,  he  pretended  that  she 
was  to  take  a  long  journey  with  him.  At  the  same 
time  he  forbade  that  any  squire  or  servant  attend 
them. 

Now  a  great  fear  began  to  creep  over  the  good 
v/oman,  and,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  she  spoke 

[45] 


false  to  her  husband  for  the  first  time,  alleging  that 
she  was  not  well  and  begging  him  to  allow  her  to 
remain  at  home. 

Since  she  had,  however,  only  shortly  before, 
been  heard  singing  to  herself,  Gibizo  became  angry 
at  the  falsehood,  and  he  made  himself  believe  that 
now  he  was  doubly  justified  in  what  he  was  plan- 
ning. He  therefore  insisted  that  she  attire  herself 
in  her  most  beautiful  robe  and  accompany  him  on 
the  ride,  which  she  did,  without  even  knowing 
whither  they  were  bound. 

When  they  had  travelled  about  half  the  distance, 
they  came  to  a  small  chapel  which  Bertrade  had 
erected  and  dedicated  to  the  service  of  the  Virgin. 
She  had  built  it  partly  out  of  sympathy  for  a  poor 
old  architect  who  was  of  a  rather  morose  and 
unamiable  disposition,  and  whom  consequently  no 
one  was  inclined  to  employ,  least  of  all  Gibizo,  ^who 
was  fond  of  having  people  come  to  him  in  a  sup- 
plicating and  reverential  manner. 

Bertrade  had  employed  him  without  Gibizo's 
knowledge,  and  the  unfortunate  craftsman  had,  by 
way  of  showing  his  appreciation,  carved  a  beauti- 
ful statue  of  the  Virgin  and  placed  it  on  the  altar. 

Bertrade  now  expressed  a  desire  to  enter  the 
chapel  for  a  moment  to  offer  up  a  prayer.     Gibizo 

[46] 


acquiesced,  for,  thought  he,  it  will  soon  stand  her 
in  good  stead.  She  dismounted  accordingly,  and 
while  her  spouse  waited  without,  she  entered,  and, 
kneeling  down  before  the  altar,  commended  herself 
to  the  protection  of  her  heavenly  guardian. 

While  in  this  posture,  a  deep  sleep  stole  over 
her,  and  the  Virgin,  descending  from  the  altar  and 
taking  on  the  form  and  garb  of  the  sleeper,  stepped 
briskly  out  from  the  chapel,  mounted  the  horse, 
and  continued  by  the  side  of  the  count  in  Bertrade's 
stead. 

And  now  the  wretch  attempted  to  deceive  his 
wife  and  to  lull  her  into  a  sense  of  security  by  di- 
verting her  thoughts  with  a  great  show  of  friendly 
attention.  He  spoke  to  her  glibly  of  many  things, 
the  Virgin  making  soft  and  low  answer,  and  by  her 
sweet  prattle  leading  him  to  believe  that  she  was 
abandoning  all  fear. 

In  this  way  they  arrived  at  the  wilderness  by  the 
lake,  above  which  the  fallow  clouds  of  evening 
hung.  There  stood  the  shaggy  firs,  their  purple 
buds  glowing  in  the  sunset  light  as  only  the  rarest 
springtime  shows  them.  In  the  neighboring  thicket 
the  nightingale  moaned  its  weird  song,  like  to  the 
sound  of  organ  and  cymbal,  while  from  out  the  firs 
rode  the  stranger,  upon  a  steed    black    as    night, 

[47] 


clothed  in  rich,  knightly  garb,  his  long  sword  hang- 
ing by  his  side. 

He  approached  very  gallantly,  at  the  same  time, 
however,  shooting  so  terrible  a  glance  upon  Gibizo 
that  his  flesh  began  to  creep.  But  beyond  this  no 
one  seemed  to  scent  evil,  not  even  the  horses,  for 
they  remained  calm.  Gibizo  tossed  his  wife's  reins 
to  the  stranger  and  galloped  away  without  even 
looking  back  at  her.  The  knight  seized  the  reins 
with  eager  hand  and  away  they  flew  through  the 
firs,  the  veil  and  cloak  of  the  fair  lady  flapping  and 
fluttering  in  the  breeze.  Over  hill  and  dale  and 
running  streams  they  sped,  the  horses'  hoofs  hardly 
touching  the  crests  of  the  waves. 

Before  them,  in  the  gloaming,  driven  on  in  the 
mad  swirl,  rolled  a  rose-scented  cloud,  while  the 
invisible  nightingale  flew  on  before,  alighting  now 
and  then  on  a  tree,  singing  her  song  right  lustily  on 
the  evening  air. 

Finally  hills  and  forests  came  to  an  end  and  they 
galloped  out  upon  a  broad  heath,  in  the  midst  of 
which,  and  as  if  from  a  great  distance,  they  heard 
again  the  song  of  the  bird,  although  round  about 
them  neither  shrub  nor  tree  was  anywhere  to  be 
seen  upon  which  she  might  have  alighted. 

Suddenly  the  knight  reined  in  his  steed,  sprang 

[48] 


from  the  saddle,  and  with  the  demeanor  of  a  per- 
fect cavalier,  helped  the  lady  to  dismount. 

Barely  had  her  foot  touched  the  earth  when  up 
about  them  there  sprang  to  the  height  of  a  man  a 
garden  of  rose-bushes  and  a  beautiful  fountain  sur- 
rounded by  seats,  over  all  of  which  the  starry 
heaven  shone  so  brightly  that  you  could  read  by  its 
light.  The  fountain  was  in  the  form  of  a  great, 
round  basin,  within  which  a  number  of  imps  were 
made  to  represent  a  white  marble  group  of  beauti- 
ful, sylph-like  forms.  Shimmering  streams  of  water, 
of  which  no  one  but  their  lord  and  master  knew 
whence  it  came,  poured  from  their  hands.  The 
plash  of  the  water  was  as  music  to  the  ear,  for  each 
jet  had  a  sound  of  its  own,  and  the  whole  swelled 
into  a  sweet  harmony  like  that  of  an  orchestra  of 
stringed  instruments.  A  harmonica  of  the  waters, 
it  seemed,  in  whose  chords  vibrated  all  the  sweets 
of  the  first  night  of  May.  With  it  mingled  and 
blended  the  beautiful  forms  of  the  nymphs,  for  the 
whole  was  not  stationary,  but  moved  and  changed 
panorama-like. 

Not  ung^-aciously  did  the  strange  cavalier  now 
conduct  hi?:  lady  to  the  garden-bench  and  invite  her 
to  be  ocated.  Then  seizing  her  hand  vehemently, 
he  said  in  a  voice  that  penetrated  to  the  heart :    "I 

[49] 


am  the  eternally  Solitary  One  who  fell  from  high 
heaven.  Only  the  love  of  a  good  woman  in  the 
night  of  May  allows  me  for  a  time  to  forget  Para- 
dise and  gives  me  strength  to  bear  the  eternal 
damnation.  Be  mine,  and  I  will  make  you  im- 
mortal and  give  you  power  to  do  good  and  prevent 
evil,  as  you  may  desire.'* 

With  that  he  cast  himself  passionately  upon 
the  breast  of  the  beautiful  woman,  who  smilingly 
awaited  him.  But  at  that  moment  the  Virgin  took 
on  her  divine  form  and  gripping  the  now  captive 
traitor  she  held  him  in  her  white  arms  as  in  a  vise. 

Instantly  the  garden,  the  fountain  and  the  night- 
ingale disappeared,  and  the  ingenious  imps  of  the 
living  picture  took  flight  like  evil  spirits  amid  fear- 
ful cries  of  anguish,  leaving  their  master  in  the 
lurch,  wrestling  with  titanic  strength  to  loosen 
himself  from  the  agonizing  embrace,  yet  not  even  so 
much  as  uttering  a  sound. 

The  Virgin  struggled,  and  gripped  her  adversary 
fast,  although  she  had  to  summon  all  of  her  strength 
to  do  so.  Her  plan  aimed  at  nothing  short  of  carry- 
ing the  outwitted  devil  straight  to  hea-^-en,  there,  to 
his  great  discomfiture,  to  bind  him  to  a  door-post 
amid  the  laughter  of  the  saints. 

But  now  the  Evil  One  changed  his  tactics.    For 

[50] 


a  time  he  remained  quiet;  then  he  assumed  the 
beautiful  form  that  he  had  possessed  when  he  was 
the  foremost  of  the  angels,  with  the  result  that  it 
became  a  comparison  of  beauty  between  him  and 
the  Virgin. 

She  set  herself  off  as  well  as  she  might,  but 
though  she  glittered  like  Venus,  the  beautiful  star 
of  the  evening,  he  shone  like  Lucifer,  the  bright 
star  of  the  morning,  and  thus  the  dark  heath  was 
made  to  gleam  and  sparkle  as  though  the  heavens 
themselves  had  descended  in  all  of  their  glory. 

When  now  the  Virgin  saw  that  she  had  under- 
taken more  than  she  could  accomplish,  and  felt  her 
powers  waning,  she  contented  herself  with  releasing 
the  enemy,  upon  his  promise  to  renounce  his  de- 
signs upon  the  Coimtess  Bertrade,  whereupon  the 
heavenly  and  the  satanic  beauties  flew  away  in  dif- 
ferent directions  with  tumultuous  noise. 

Somewhat  fatigued,  the  Virgin  returned  to  her 
chapel,  while  the  Evil  One,  paralyzed  in  all  his 
limbs  and  unable  to  undergo  further  transforma- 
tion, dragged  himself  off  over  the  sand,  much  the 
worse  for  wear,  and  looking  the  disordered  embodi- 
ment of  grief.  Thus  badly  did  he  fare  in  his  pro- 
posed love-hour. 

Meantime  Gibizo,  after  leaving  his  sweet  wife, 

[51] 


had  ridden  astray  in  the  falling  dusk,  and  horse  and 
rider  had  fallen  into  a  deep  abyss,  where  he  was 
dashed  upon  the  rocks  with  such  violence  that  he 
straightway  yielded  up  his  wicked  spirit. 

Bertrade,  in  the  chapel,  continued  in  slumber 
until  the  morning  sun  of  the  first  day  of  May  began 
to  climb  the  eastern  hills,  when  she  awoke,  much 
astonished  at  the  length  of  her  nap. 

She  prayed  the  Ave,  stepped  out  from  the  chapel, 
and  there  stood  her  horse  just  as  she  had  left  it. 

She  did  not  stop  to  await  her  husband's  return, 
but  rode  quickly  and  cheerfully  homeward,  for  she 
divined  that  she  had  escaped  some  great  danger. 

Soon  the  remains  of  the  late  count  were  brought 
to  the  castle.  Bertrade  had  him  buried  with  all 
honors,  and  besides  she  paid  for  many  masses  to  be 
read  for  his  soul's  repose,  but  all  of  her  love  for  him 
had  been  crushed  from  her  heart,  although  toward 
all  others  she  remained  as  kind  and  loving  as  ever. 

In  the  course  of  time,  Bertrade's  heavenly  pro- 
tectress gave  her  another  husband,  one  more  worthy 
than  Gibizo  of  so  devoted  a  wife,  and  these  events 
took  place  as  will  be  related  in  the  following  legend. 


[52] 


THE  VIRGIN  IN  THE  ROLE  OF 

KNIGHT 

The  tent  of  God,  Mary  is  a  lied,  and  God^s  throne; 
An  ark,  burg,  tonxjer,  house,  a  spring,  a  sea,  garden,  jnirror, 
A  tree,  a  star,  the  moon,  th<   morning-red,  a  mountain. 
Can  she  be  all  of  these?   Shi  calls  a  world  her  oivn. 

— Angelus  Silesius. 

6IBIZO  had  in  aaiition  to  his  former  pos- 
sessions acquired  many  more,  and  thus 
Bertrade  held  sway  over  a  great  earldom, 
and  became  famed  throughout  the  German  empire 
for  her  riches  as  well  as  for  her  great  beauty. 

Since  she  was  modesty  itself,  and  was  very 
friendly  towards  all  men,  this  treasure  of  a  woman 
was  thought  easy  to  be  won  by  all  the  enterprising 
and  the  timid,  the  bold  and  the  bashful,  the  great 
and  the  small  noblemen  of  the  realm,  and  every 
man  who  saw  her  wondered  why  in  all  the  world 
he  had  not  already  made  her  his  wife.  But  more 
than  one  year  had  gone  by  and  still  there  was  no 
man  to  whom  she  had  really  given  reason  to  hope. 

The  Emperor  himself  heard  of  her,  and  desiring 
that  so  important  a  fief  as  hers  should  come  into 
the  hands  of  a  good  man,  he  decided  to  pay  a  visit 
to  the  far-famed  Bertrade,  informed  her  of  his  in- 

[53] 


tention  by  letter,  and  sent  th<  message  by  a  young 
knight,  Zendelwald  by  name,  who  happened  to  be 
bound  that  way.  Zendelw.dd  was  received  gra- 
ciously by  Bertrade,  and  encertained  like  all  others 
who  chanced  to  be  her  gu  !Sts  at  her  castle.  He 
was  charmed,  and  gazed  u')on  the  beautiful  halls, 
the  battlements  and  the  g  irdens  in  great  respect, 
and  incidentally  he  fell  in  love  with  the  fair  pos- 
sessor. 

But,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  did  not  tarry  an 
hour  longer  than  his  mission  required.  As  soon 
as  he  had  concluded  his  errand  he  bade  the  count- 
ess a  brief  farewell  and  rode  away,  the  only  one  of 
all  who  had  ever  visited  Bertrade,  to  acknowledge 
himself  unable  to  win  this  fair  prize. 

Zendelwald  was  slow  of  speech  and  action. 
When  his  mind  and  heart  had  once  taken  posses- 
sion of  a  project,  a  thing  which  he  always  did  with 
the  zest  and  enthusiasm  native  to  him,  he  could  not 
find  it  within  himself  to  take  the  first  step  towards 
carrying  it  out,  since  the  matter  seemed  to  him 
accomplished,  once  he  had  settled  it  in  his  own 
mind. 

And  so,  although  he  was  very  fond  of  talking 
about  things  when  there  was  nothing  immediately 
to  be  realized,  he  never  spoke    the    word    which 

[54] 


might  have  sealed  his  fortune  at  the  right  moment. 

Moreover,  his  thoughts  not  only  outran  his 
speech,  but  his  hand  as  well,  with  the  result  that  he 
had  been  nearly  conquered  several  times  in  armed 
combat  because  he  had  neglected  to  deal  the  de- 
cisive blow  at  the  proper  moment,  in  his  mind's 
eye  already  seeing  his  opponent  at  his  feet.  Thus 
his  manner  of  fighting  excited  great  curiosity  at  the 
tournaments,  since  at  the  outset  he  hardly  moved 
or  exerted  himself  at  all,  and  only  when  hard 
pressed  did  he  put  forth  a  great  and  final  effort, 
thereby  generally  winning  the  conflict. 

Deep  in  thought,  the  object  of  which  was  beau- 
tiful Bertrade,  Zendelwald  now  rode  home  to  his 
castle,  which  lay  in  a  solitary  mountain  forest. 
Charcoal-burners  and  wood-cutters  were  his  only 
subjects,  and  thus  his  lonely  mother  awaited  his  re- 
turn as  usual  with  great  im.patience,  wondering 
whether  he  might  this  time  bring  his  good  fortune 
home  with  him  in  the  shape  of  a  lovely  wife. 

But  if  Zendelwald  was  a  dreamer,  his  mother 
was  not.  She  was  active  and  resolute,  without, 
however,  deriving  much  advantage  from  these 
characteristics,  since  she  had  always  displayed 
them  so  unpleasantly  to  others  that  they  no  longer 
proved  themselves  effective. 

[55] 


When  a  girl,  she  had  sought  to  capture  a 
husband  as  soon  as  might  be,  and  therefore  had 
pursued  her  matrimonial  chances  so  hotly  that  in 
her  haste  she  hit  upon  the  worst  possible  choice 
in  the  person  of  a  rash  and  foolhardy  fellow  who 
squandered  his  inheritance  and  came  to  a  prema- 
ture grave,  leaving  her  a  young  widow  in  poverty, 
and  burdened  with  a  son  who  was  slow  to  make 
his  fortune. 

The  sole  sustenance  of  the  small  household  con- 
sisted of  wild  fruit  and  game  and  the  milk  of  a 
couple  of  goats.  Zendelwald's  mother  was  a  great 
huntress.  With  her  crossbow  she  brought  down 
wild  doves  and  woodcocks  to  her  heart's  content. 
She  caught  trout,  too,  in  the  neighboring  streams, 
and  with  her  own  hands  made  the  necessary  re- 
pairs in  the  castle  walls  with  stone  and  mortar. 

Even  now  she  was  returning  from  the  chase, 
and  as  she  hung  a  hare  in  the  window  of  her 
kitchen,  she  glanced  down  across  the  valley  and 
caught  sight  of  her  son  riding  up  the  path.  Over- 
joyed at  the  sight,  she  hastened  to  lower  the  draw- 
bridge, for  Zendelwald  had  not  been  home  for 
months. 

She  began  at  once  to  quiz  him  whether  per- 
chance he  had  lit  upon  and  brought  with  him  some 

[56] 


little  pinion  or  tail-feather  of  the  Bird  of  Fortune 
on  which  it  might  be  wise  to  keep  a  hold.  But 
when  he  related  the  usual  unimportant  happen- 
ings of  his  warlike  expedition  she  shook  her  head 
angrily,  and  when  he  finally  mentioned  his  mis- 
sion to  the  charming  and  beautiful  Bertrade  and 
was  loud  in  his  praise  of  her  grace  and  beauty,  she 
called  him  a  laggard  and  a  lazy-bones  because  of 
his  ignominious  departure  from  the  countess*  do- 
mains. 

Moreover,  when  she  perceived,  as  she  soon  did, 
that  Zendelwald  thought  of  nothing  but  his  distant, 
noble  lady,  she  became  doubly  incensed  to  learn 
that  in  spite  of  his  deep  regard  for  Bertrade,  he 
had  been  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  or  to  say 
and  that  his  love  was  a  hindrance  to  him  rather 
than  an  impulse  towards  action. 

From  this  mom.ent  Zendelwald's  pathway  was  a 
thorny  one.  His  mother  sulked  and  stormed.  To 
quiet  her  anger,  and  by  way  of  diversion,  she  set 
to  work  with  her  own  hands  to  repair  the  crumbling 
roof  of  the  castle  tower  until  our  good  Zendelwald 
became  alternately  hot  and  cold  with  fear  at  seeing 
her  clambering  about  on  the  high  roofs.  She  was 
in  a  fine  fury  and  continued  to  throw  pieces  of 
broken  tile  to  the  earth  so  furiously  that  she  al- 

[57] 


most  killed  a  strange  horseman  who  chanced  to  be 
entering  the  castle  gate  to  petition  for  a  night's 
lodging. 

However,  this  man  succeeded  in  appeasing  the 
austere  dame  with  his  tales  of  adventure,  told  over 
the  evening  meal.  Especially  did  he  catch  her 
fancy  when  he  dwelt  on  the  Emperor's  visit  at  the 
castle  of  the  beautiful  Bertrade  and  on  the  festivals 
which  followed  fast  one  upon  another's  heels. 
"The  charming  woman,"  related  he,  "is  being  in- 
cessantly urged  by  the  King  and  his  grandees  to 
select  a  husband  from  among  the  noblemen  of  the 
realm.  But  she  has  had  recourse  to  the  subterfuge 
of  convoking  a  great  tournament,  and  has  promised 
to  bestow  her  hand  upon  the  victor,  for  she  be- 
lieves firmly  that  her  protectress,  the  Holy  Virgin, 
will  intervene,  and  guide  the  arm  of  the  chosen 


one. 


"Now,  this  is  an  adventure  for  you,"  the  stran- 
ger concluded,  turning  to  Zendelwald;  "A  hand- 
some young  man  of  your  stamp  ought  to  aspire  to 
the  very  best  to  be  had  in  the  world.  Rumor  has 
it,  too,  that  the  lady  is  possessed  of  a  firm  belief 
that  in  this  way  some  unsurmised  good  fortune  will 
come  to  her,  some  impecunious  but  doughty  knight 
on  whom  she  may  bestow  all  of  her  love,  for  she 

[58] 


is  much  averse  to  the  great  counts  and  vain  suit- 
ors known  to  her." 

When  the  stranger  had  departed,  Zendelwald's 
mother  said:  "Now  I'll  wager  that  no  one  but 
Bertrade  herself  has  sent  this  messenger  to  en- 
tice you  on  to  the  right  trail,  my  dear  Zendelwald. 
That's  as  plain  as  can  be.  How  otherwise  should 
this  queer  bird  who  has  just  drunk  our  last  jug 
of  wine  have  come  to  this  forest?" 

At  this  Zendelwald  struck  up  a  great  laugh, 
and  louder  and  louder  he  laughed,  partly,  no  doubt, 
because  of  her  maternal  fancies,  partly  because  it 
pleased  him.  The  mere  thought  that  Bertrade 
might  desire  him  as  her  husband  shook  him  with 
laughter. 

But  the  mother,  believing  he  was  laughing  her 
to  scorn,  went  into  a  great  rage  and  cried:  "Now 
hear  me.  My  curse  upon  you,  if  you  do  not  obey 
me  and  betake  yourself  on  the  way  at  once  to  win 
this  woman.  Do  not  return  without  her,  or  I  will 
never  look  upon  you  again.  And  if  you  come  with- 
out her,  I'll  take  my  cross-bow  and  leave  this  spot, 
to  find  a  resting-place  beneath  the  sod,  where  I 
may  be  unmolested  by  your  stupidity." 

Now  there  was  no  alternative  for  Zendelwald. 
For  the  sake  of  the  family  peace  he  laid  on  his 

C  59  ] 


armor,  took  his  weapons,  and  commending  himself 
to  the  protection  of  Heaven,  rode  away  in  the  di- 
rection of  Bertrade's  castle,  without,  however,  se- 
riously purposing  ever  to  arrive  there. 

He  held  pretty  closely  to  the  course,  neverthe- 
less, and  the  nearer  he  drew  to  the  place,  the  more 
clearly  did  the  thought  shape  itself  that  he  as  well 
as  any  one  might  undertake  the  thing,  and  that 
after  he  should  have  overcome  his  rivals  it  would 
not  be  risking  his  life  to  venture  a  dance  with  the 
fair  lady  of  his  heart. 

In  his  imagination,  the  adventure  unrolled  it- 
self step  by  step  and  he  fairly  revelled  in  it.  In- 
deed, for  days,  while  riding  through  the  verdant 
fields  of  summer,  he  held  sweet  concourse  with 
his  beloved,  communicating  to  her  the  most  charm- 
ing fancies,  which  made  her  face  radiant  with  wom- 
anly joy.    But  all  of  this  was  in  his  mind. 

Even  now,  as  he  was  again  depicting  some  joy- 
ful event  in  his  imagination,  he  saw  along  the  blue 
mountain-ridge  the  towers  and  battlements  and 
the  gilded  parapets  of  her  castle  sparkle  and  gleam 
in  the  morning  sun,  and  he  was  so  frightened  by 
the  sight  that  all  his  dream-fabric  vanished,  leav- 
ing him  as  timid  and  irresolute  as  before. 

Involuntarily  he  reined  in  his  steed  and  looked 

[  60  ] 


about  him,  after  the  fashion  of  the  irresolute,  for 
a  manner  of  escape.  As  he  did  so  he  caught  sight 
of  a  small  chapel,  the  same  which  Bertrade  had 
erected  to  the  honor  of  the  Virgin  and  in  which 
she  had  had  her  long  sleep.  He  decided  to  stop 
there  to  collect  and  strengthen  himself  a  bit  before 
the  altar.  More  especially  did  he  feel  the  need  of 
this  since  it  was  the  very  day  on  which  the  tourna- 
ment was  to  be  held. 

As  he  entered,  a  priest  was  saying  mass.  There 
were  only  two  or  three  people  in  attendance,  and 
the  presence  of  the  knight  shed  not  a  little  lustre 
on  the  small  congregation.  But  when  the  service 
was  over  and  priest  and  sacristan  had  left  the 
church,  Zendelwald  felt  so  comfortable  in  his  little/ 
nook  that  he  soon  fell  asleep,  quite  forgetting  both 
tournament  and  lady  love,  unless  perchance  he  saw 
them  in  his  dreams. 

And  again  the  Virgin  descended  from  the  altar,y!>^ 
and  taking  on  Zendelwald's  form  and  armor,  she 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away  in  his  stead,  with 
closed  visor — a  Brunhild  in  bearing — towards  the 
castle. 

After  riding  some  distance,  she  came  upon  a  pile 
of  old  rubbish  and  dry  branches  which  attracted 
her  attention.     Peering  closer,  she  noticed  the  tail 

[61] 


of  a  reptile  protruding  from  under  the  mass.  It 
was  the  Evil  One,  who,  still  filled  with  his  base 
passion,  had  continued  to  slink  about  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  castle  and  who  at  the  approach  of  the 
Virgin  had  taken  refuge  under  the  rubbish  heap. 
Apparently  without  noticing  him  she  rode  by,  but 
by  a  clever  maneuver  made  her  horse's  hind  hoof 
strike  the  projecting  tail.  With  a  hiss,  the  Evil 
One  started  up  and  away  and  was  not  seen  again 
in  the  neighborhood. 

Amused  by  this  little  escapade,  she  rode  merrily 
on  towards  the  castle.  When  she  arrived  there,  the 
tournament  was  almost  over.  Only  tv/o  of  the 
most  powerful  knights  still  remained  and  were 
about  to  decide  the  outcome  of  the  tournament  be- 
tween them. 

Slowly  and  in  a  careless  manner,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  Zendelwald,  the  Virgin  rode  into  the  lists, 
and  for  a  moment  she  seemed  undecided  whether 
she  should  enter  the  conflict  or  not. 

"Oh,  here  comes  Zendelwald,  late  as  usual,"  the 
people  called,  and  the  two  knights  who  remained 
on  the  field  said:  "What  will  he  here?  Let  us  put 
him  out  of  the  way,  before  settling  the  matter." 

The  one  was  called  Sir  Guhl,  the  Speedy,  be- 
cause he  was  fond  of  wheeling  his  horse  about  like 

[62] 


a  whirlwind,  and  of  confusing  and  conquering  his 
opponent  by  a  hundred  sly  turns  and  tricks. 

With  him  the  supposed  Zendelwald  had  first  to 
try  consequences.  Sir  Guhl  had  a  pitchy  black 
moustache,  the  ends  of  which  were  twisted  smartly 
and  stood  perpendicularly  upright,  so  stiffly  that 
they  were  able  to  support  two  small  silver  bells 
that  were  fastened  to  them  and  which  rang  when- 
ever he  moved  his  head.  He  called  these  bells  the 
chimes  of  his  enemies'  dismay,  and  the  chimes  of 
his  lady-love's  delight.  His  shield  shone  in  chang- 
ing colors,  accordingly  as  he  turned  it  this  way  or 
that,  and  so  adept  was  he  in  bringing  about  this 
play  of  color  that  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers  were 
dazzled  by  it.  And  finally,  his  helmet  plumes  con- 
sisted of  a  great  rooster's  tail. 

The  second  opponent  was  called  Sir  Maus,  the 
Innumerable,  which  epithet  he  intended  to  mean 
that  he  was  to  be  regarded  as  a  great  and  number- 
less army.  As  evidence  of  his  great  strength  he 
had  let  the  hair  grow  from  his  nostrils  to  the  length 
of  six  inches,  and  had  it  braided  in  two  small  braids 
which  hung  down  over  his  mouth  and  were  adorned 
v/ith  dainty  bows  of  red  ribbon.  Over  his  armor 
he  v/ore  a  large  loose-fitting  cloak  which  was  made 
of  thousands  of  mole-skins,  and  which  almost  cov- 

[63] 


ered  both  horse  and  rider.  A  great  outstretched 
bat's  wing  served  him  as  a  crest,  from  below  which 
he  shot  out  menacing  glances  through  the  narrow 
slits  of  his  eyes. 

The  signal  for  the  contest  with  Sir  Guhl  was 
given.  He  rode  up  to  and  about  the  Virgin,  en- 
circling her  with  increasing  rapidity  in  order  to 
blind  her  with  his  shield,  all  the  while  essaying  nu- 
merous blows  with  his  lance. 

But  the  Virgin  continued  in  the  centre  of  the 
field  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  seemed  only  to 
ward  off  his  attack  with  shield  and  lance,  wheeling 
her  horse  with  great  skill  as  she  did  so,  and  man- 
aging continually  to  face  the  enemy. 

Guhl,  noticing  this,  suddenly  rode  off  some  dis- 
tance ;  then  turning,  he  rushed  upon  his  antagonist 
with  lance  atilt  to  strike  her  to  the  ground. 

The  Virgin  awaited  him,  motionless,  and  rider 
and  steed  seemed  modelled  in  steel,  so  immovably 
did  they  stand.  Poor  Guhl,  who  knew  not  that 
he  was  closing  in  with  a  higher  power,  lit  upon 
her  lance  and  was  thrown  from  his  saddle  to  the 
earth  in  a  trice,  while  his  own  weapon  was  shat- 
tered upon  her  shield  like  a  reed. 

Immediately  she  sprang  from  her  horse  and, 
placing  her  knee  upon  his  breast,  pinned  him  to  the 

[64] 


ground.  With  a  stroke  of  her  dagger  she  cut  off 
the  moustaches  with  their  bells,  and  fastened  them 
to  her  sword-belt,  just  as  the  flourish  of  trumpets 
greeted  her,  or  rather  Zendelwald,  as  the  victor. 

Now  it  was  Sir  Maus's  turn.  With  great  verve 
he  galloped  into  the  field,  his  cloak  flying  in  the 
air  like  a  menacing  cloud  of  gray. 

But  Virgin-Zendelwald,  who  only  now  seemed 
to  be  warming  up  to  the  contest,  dashed  towards 
him  with  an  equal  show  of  strength,  unseating  him 
easily  with  her  first  blow.  And  when  he  sprang 
up  and  drew  his  sword,  she  also  sprang  from  her 
horse,  ready  to  continue  the  struggle  on  foot. 

He  was  soon  dazed  by  the  rapid  sword-blows 
that  she  dealt  him  on  head  and  shoulders,  while  he, 
holding  out  his  cloak  with  his  left  hand  to  screen 
himself,  sought  if  possible  to  cast  it  over  the  head 
of  his  opponent. 

But  the  Virgin  caught  a  corner  of  the  cloak 
upon  the  point  of  her  sword,  and  with  a  swift  turn 
of  her  hand  wrapped  Sir  Maus,  the  Innumerable, 
up  in  it  from  head  to  foot  with  such  graceful  dex- 
terity that  he  lay  struggling  upon  the  earth  like  a 
great  wasp  that  has  been  enmeshed  by  a  spider. 

Thereupon  she  gave  him  so  thorough  a  drub- 
bing with  the  flat  of  her  sword  that  his  mantle  was 

[65] 


resolved  into  its  component  parts,  and  the  thou- 
sands of  mole-skins,  flying  this  way  and  that,  amid 
the  general  laughter  of  the  spectators,  almost  shut 
out  the  light  of  the  sun.  After  a  time  the  knight 
emerged  from  the  hubbub  and  hobbled  away,  a 
crushed  man;  not,  however,  before  his  conqueror 
had  deprived  him  of  his  ribboned  moustachios. 

And  thus  the  Virgin,  in  the  person  of  Zendel- 
wald,  stood  upon  the  field  of  combat,  the  sole  victor. 

She  now  raised  her  visored  helmet,  strode  up  to 
the  queen  of  the  tournament,  and,  bending  her  knee 
before  her,  laid  the  trophies  of  victory  at  her  feet. 

This  done,  she  arose,  and  looking  a  bolder  Zen- 
delwald  than  that  gentleman  ever  had  the  boldness 
to  look,  without,  however,  sacrificing  any  of  his 
modesty,  she  greeted  Bertrade  with  a  look  the  effect 
of  which  upon  a  woman's  heart  she  well  knew.  In 
short,  she  deported  herself  in  such  manner  in  her 
role  of  lover  as  well  as  knight,  that  Bertrade  did 
not  retract  her  promise,  made  before  the  tourna- 
ment, but  yielded  to  the  advice  of  the  Emperor, 
who  was  happy  to  see  so  valiant  and  noble  a  man 
come  into  the  earldom. 

They  now  took  their  v/ay  in  great  procession 
to  the  grove  of  high  towering  lindens,  where  a  ban- 
quet had  been  prepared.    Bertrade  sat  between  the 

[66] 


1 


Emperor  and  her  chosen  Zendelwald,  and  it  was 
fortunate  that  the  Emperor  had,  at  his  side,  an- 
other pretty  companion,  for  Zendelwald  did  not  al- 
low his  bride  much  time  to  speak  to  others,  so 
cleverly  and  tenderly  did  he  entertain  her.  Evi- 
dently he  was  whispering  sweet  nothings  into  her 
ear,  since  every  now  and  then  deep  blushes  over- 
spread her  radiant  face  and  neck. 

Joy  reigned  supreme.  In  the  heavy-foliaged 
arches  overhead,  the  birds  vied  with  the  music  of 
the  festive  board.  A  butterfly  alighted  on  the  Em- 
peror's golden  crov/n,  while  the  goblets  of  wine,  as 
if  by  a  special  blessing  of  heaven,  gave  forth  a 
fragrance  as  of  violets  and  mignonette. 

Bertrade  was  very  happy,  and  while  Zendelwald 
held  her  hand  in  his,  her  thoughts  ascended  to  her 
divine  Protectress,  and  she  offered  up  a  fervent 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  in  her  heart. 

The  Virgin,  who,  as  v/e  know,  was  sitting  at  her 
side  in  the  person  of  Zendelwald,  read  the  prayer  in 
her  heart  and  was  so  gratified  with  the  piety  of  her 
fledgling  that  she  embraced  her  passionately  and 
impressed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips,  filling  the  lovely 
woman  with  heavenly  rapture,  for  when  the  celes- 
tials take  to  making  sweets  they  make  them  very 
sweet. 

[67] 


The  Emperor,  however,  and  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, applauded  the  supposed  Zendelwald,  and 
raising  their  beakers  drank  to  the  health  of  the 
beautiful  couple. 

Meantime,  the  real  Zendelvv^ald  awoke  from  his 
inopportune  sleep,  and  saw  the  sun  already  so  high 
that  he  thought  the  tournament  must  be  over. 

Although  he  was  now  fortunately  delivered 
from  the  affair,  he  felt  unhappy  and  sad,  for  really 
he  had  desired  very  much  to  win  the  lady's  love, 
and  besides,  he  now  no  longer  dared  return  to  his 
mother,  and  thus  he  decided  to  set  out  upon  never- 
ending  wanderings  until  death  should  release  him 
from  his  useless  existence.  Only  once  more  he 
wished  to  look  upon  the  loved  woman  that  he 
might  fix  her  image  upon  his  heart  forever  to  re- 
mind him  of  his  loss. 

He  wended  his  way  towards  the  castle  accord- 
ingly, and  as  he  drew  near  he  heard  all  lips  pro- 
claiming the  praise  and  the  good  fortune  of  a  cer- 
tain poor  knight  Zendelwald,  w^ho  was  said  to  have 
gained  the  prize.  Painfully  curious  to  learn  who 
this  Zendelwald  might  be,  he  dismounted  and  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd  to  an  elevated  spot  near 
the  edge  of  the  garden,  from  where  he  was  able 
to  survey  the  entire  festive  scene. 

[68] 


He  saw  the  face  of  Bertrade  beaming  in  jew- 
elled splendor  near  the  sparkling  crown  of  the  Em- 
peror, and  next  to  her,  to  his  utter  amazemept,  he 
saw  the  exact  likeness  of  his  own  person.     •/ 

He  gazed  upon  the  scene  as  one  transfixed,  until 
he  saw  his  double  embrace  and  kiss  the  beautiful 
bride;  then,  unmindful  of  the  general  joy,  he  strode 
with  a  steady  tread  through  the  crowd  and  stood 
close  behind  the  couple,  consumed  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  jealousy. 

At  the  same  moment  his  counterpart  disap- 
peared from  Bertrade's  side  and  she,  looking  about 
for  him  and  catching  sight  of  Zendelwald  behind 
her,  cooed  a  joyful  little  laugh  of  love  and  said: 
"Are  you  there,  my  love?  Come,  remain  close  by 
me,"  and  she  seized  his  hand  and  drew  him  to  her 
side. 

Zendelwald  sat  down,  accordingly,  and,  to  test 
what  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  dream,  he  seized  a  gob- 
let of  wine  standing  before  him  and  emptied  it  at 
one  draught.  The  wine  was  good;  it  poured  life 
and  confidence  into  his  veins,  and  as  his  spirits  rose, 
he  turned  and  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  the  radiant 
woman,  who  now  took  up  the  conversation  where 
it  had  been  interrupted. 

But  when  Bertrade  spoke  words  that  he  seemed 

[69] 


to  have  heard  before,  and  to  which  he  made  answer 
in  words  which  he  too  seemed  to  have  spoken 
somewhere  previously,  Zendelwald  hardly  knew 
what  to  make  of  it  all.  And,  indeed,  after  a  time 
he  noticed  that  his  predecessor  must  have  said  the 
very  things  which  he  himself  had  imagined  himself 
saying  to  her  on  his  journey  hither,  and  which  he 
now  deliberately  continued  in  order  to  see  what  the 
outcome  of  the  whole  affair  might  be. 

But  there  were  no  untoward  results;  in  fact, 
their  conversation  became  m.ore  and  more  pleasant, 
and  when  the  sun  had  set,  torches  were  lighted 
and  the  entire  company  betook  themselves  to  the 
great  hall  of  the  castle  to  give  themselves  up  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  dance. 

The  first  dance  with  the  bride  was  the  Emper- 
or's privilege.  Thereupon  Zendelwald  claimed  her, 
but  they  had  taken  only  three  or  four  turns  about 
the  hall,  when  his  rosy  partner  seized  him  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  to  a  quiet  turret  chamber  which 
lay  flooded  with  the  light  of  the  moon.  Now,  seated 
by  his  side,  she  embraced  him  tenderly,  caressing 
his  tawny  beard  and  thanking  him  for  his  coming 
and  for  his  love. 

But  honest  Zendelwald  nov/  wanted  to  know 
whether  he  was  dreaming  or  waking;  so  he  ques- 

[70] 


tioned  her  as  to  the  real  state  of  affairs,  especially 
concerninf<  his  double. 

For  a  long  time  she  failed  to  understand  what 
he  was  driving  at,  until  finally  it  began  to  dawn 
upon  her.  Zendelwald  related  what  had  befallen 
him  and  told  of  his  experiences  from  the  time  he 
had  entered  the  chapel;  how  he  had  fallen  asleep, 
thereb}^  arriving  too  late  for  the  tournament. 

Nov/  Bertrade  understood,  and  she  recognized 
the  hand  of  her  protectress  for  the  second  time  in 
her  life.  Even  more  than  heretofore  she  now  re- 
garded her  brave  knight  as  a  gift  of  Heaven,  and  so 
thankful  v/as  she  that  she  pressed  the  sturdy  gift 
doughtily  to  her  heart  and  returned  the  sweet  kiss 
that  she  had  received  from  Heaven  itself. 

From  this  time  on  Zendelwald  laid  off  all  his 
indolent  waj^s  and  his  dreamy  manner  and  became 
quick  of  speech  and  action,  not  only  towards  the 
loved  woman  but  towards  all  the  world.  And  he 
became  renowned  in  the  empire,  and  the  Emperor 
was  as  m.uch  pleased  with  him  as  was  his  wife. 

Zendelwald's  mother  honored  the  young  couple 
with  her  presence  at  the  wedding,  and  she  came 
high  ahorse  and  as  proudly  as  though  Fortune  had 
smiled  upon  her  all  the  days  of  her  life.  She  con- 
tinued to  administer  the  affairs  of  her  own  estates, 

[71] 


and  remained,  until  a  ripe  old  age,  in  her  great  for- 
ests, devoted  to  the  chase. 

Once  a  year  Bertrade  insisted  upon  being  accom- 
panied by  Zendelwald  to  his  little,  obscure,  paternal 
castle,  there  to  coo  with  her  lover  as  tenderly  as 
the  wild  doves  on  the  great  trees  about  the  old 
haunt.  And  never  once  did  they  neglect  to  enter 
the  chapel  and  to  offer  up  their  prayers  to  the  Vir- 
gin, who  continued  in  her  place  on  the  altar,  as 
quiet  and  serene  as  though  she  had  never  been 
known  to  forsake  it. 


[72] 


DOROTHEA'S  FLOWER-BASKET 

"But  to  lose  oneself  thus  means  to  find  oneself. 

— Franciscus  Ludo'vicus  Blosius. 

ON  THE  southern  shore  of  the  Pontus 
Euxinus,  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  the 
river  Halys,  there  lay,  in  the  light  of  the 
brightest  of  spring  mornings,  a  Roman  villa.  A 
breeze  from  the  northeast  wafted  grateful  coolness 
over  the  gardens  from  the  waters  of  the  sea,  re- 
freshing heathens  and  Christians  alike,  and  caus- 
ing all  to  feel  as  blithe  as  the  foliage  that  trembled 
in  the  spring  breeze. 

In  a  shady  bower  by  the  shore  of  the  sea,  stood 
tv/o  young  people,  a  handsome  youth  and  the  fairest 
of  maidens.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  beautiful,  large 
cut-glass  vase  of  translucent  red  and  seemed  to  be 
inviting  the  young  man  to  admire  it.  As  she  did 
so,  the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  reflected  by  the 
vase  upon  her  face,  vied  with  the  blushes  on  her 
cheek. 

Dorothea  was  the  maiden's  name.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  patrician,  and  it  was  well  known  that 
her  hand  was  being  sought  in  marriage  by  Fabri- 
cius,  the  governor  of  the  province  of  Cappadocia. 
But  since  he  was  a  bitter  persecutor  of  the  Chris- 

[73] 


tians,  and  Dorothea's  parents  were  kindly  disposed 
towards  the  new  faith,  they  resisted,  as  far  as  they 
dared,  the  suit  of  the  powerful  inquisitor. 

Now  one  must  not  suppose  that  Dorothea's  par- 
ents wished  to  embroil  their  children  in  controver- 
sies concerning  the  faith,  nor  to  barter  away  their 
hearts  as  the  purchase  price  of  new  proselytes  to 
the  Christian  religion;  they  were  too  noble  and 
liberal-minded  to  do  that.  They  simply  felt  that  a 
religious  inquisitor  would  certainly  turn  out  but  a 
poor  lover  and  husband. 

Dorothea  did  not  trouble  herself  about  these  as- 
pects at  all.  She  felt  herself  quite  secure  against 
the  blandishments  of  the  governor.  The  fact  was, 
she  loved  his  private  secretary,  Theophilus,  who 
even  at  this  moment  stood  at  her  side,  casting  per- 
plexed but  admiring  glances  at  the  ruby  vase. 

Theophilus  was  a  well-bred  and  handsome 
young  man  of  Greek  descent  who  had  risen,  in 
spite  of  adverse  circumstances,  and  who  enjoyed 
the  respect  of  all  who  knew  him.  But  his  years  of 
poverty  had  imprinted  upon  his  character  a  trait  of 
mistrust  and  of  taciturnity,  and  since  he  had  made 
his  way  in  the  world  entirely  by  his  own  efforts,  he 
was  rarely  able  to  make  himself  believe  that  any- 
one had  his  interests  especially  at  heart. 

[74] 


He  was  passionately  devoted  to  Dorothea,  but 
the  fact  that  the  first  man  in  Cappadocia  was  paying 
suit  to  her  deterred  him  from  entertaining  any  hope 
for  himself,  and  not  for  any  consideration  would  he 
have  consented  to  become  the  laughing-stock  in  a 
race  with  that  great  gentleman. 

Nevertheless,  Dorothea  sought  to  accomplish  her 
ends  and  for  the  present  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of 
his  company  as  often  as  possible.  And  since  he 
seemed  always  quiet  and  indifferent,  her  ardor  rose 
until  she  even  began  to  make  use  of  doubtful  little 
artifices,  as  when  she  tried  to  arouse  his  jealousy 
by  seeming  to  look  with  favor  upon  the  suit  of  the 
governor. 

But  poor  Theophilus  had  no  comprehension  of 
such  strategy,  and  if  he  had  understood,  his  pride 
would  not  have  allowed  him  to  show  his  jealousy. 

In  spite  of  himself  he  was,  however,  gradually 
carried  away,  made  uneasy  and  brought  at  times  to 
betray  his  real  feelings,  but  straightway  collecting 
himself,  he  resumed  his  usual  manner,  thus  leaving 
his  fair  admirer  no  alternative  but  to  proceed  more 
aggressively  and  perchance  suddenly  to  enmesh 
him. 

At  present  he  had  come  to  the  Black  Sea  region 
on  business,  and  Dorothea,  as  soon  as  she  learned 

[75] 


of  it,  had  followed  her  parents  thither  to  their  coun- 
try villa.  Thus  she  had,  by  clever  planning,  suc- 
ceeded on  this  morning  in  inveigling  him  into  the 
arbor.  She  intended  to  have  this  meeting  appear 
partly  as  an  accident,  partly  as  an  evidence  of 
friendship.  She  hoped,  too,  that  this  piece  of  good 
fortune,  backed  by  the  ingratiating  manner  which 
she  intended  to  assume,  might  induce  a  cheerful 
and  confiding  mood  in  him. 

Thus  she  happened  to  be  exhibiting  to  him  the 
vase  that  her  uncle  had  sent  her  as  a  present  from 
Trapezunt,  on  the  anniversary  of  her  patron  saint's 
day.  Her  face  was  aglow  with  joy  at  having  her 
lover  so  near  her  and  all  to  herself,  and  at  being 
able  to  delight  him  with  so  beautiful  a  thing  as  the 
vase.  He  too  seemed  happy.  The  sun  of  love  was 
beaming  in  his  heart,  smiling  on  his  lips  and  shin- 
ing from  his  eyes. 

But  along  with  blooming  Eros,  the  ancients 
neglected  to  mention  the  god  of  Envy  who,  at  the 
decisive  moment,  when  Fortune  smiles,  casts  a  veil 
over  lovers'  eyes  and  hushes  the  v/ords  of  love  and 
troth  already  on  their  lips. 

When  Dorothea  placed  the  vase  trustingly  in 
his  hands  and  he  asked  who  had  given  it  to  her,  a 
burst  of  v/anton  roguishness  led  her  to   answer: 

[76] 


"Fabricius,"  and  she  felt  sure  he  would  not  fail  to 
understand  the  pleasantry. 

But  since  she  had  not  succeeded  in  intermingling 
with  her  smile  the  requisite  touch  of  sarcasm  for 
the  absent  Fabricius,  which  would  have  made  the 
pleasantry  more  evident,  Theophilus  firmly  believed 
that  her  joyful  mood  was  induced  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  giver  and  that  he,  Theophilus,  had  made 
a  great  mistake  by  attempting  the  conquest  of  a 
heart  that  was  already  won,  and  was  a  stranger  to 
him. 

Mute  with  a  sense  of  shame,  he  cast  down  his 
eyes  and  the  trembling  of  his  hands  caused  the  vase 
to  fall  to  the  ground  where  it  was  dashed  to  pieces. 

The  first  shock  of  this  untoward  turn  caused 
Dorothea  to  forget  not  only  her  intended  pleas- 
antry, but,  for  the  moment,  Theophilus  as  well,  and 
as  she  bent  down  to  pick  up  the  fragments  she  ex- 
claimed: "How  stupid!"  And  since  she  was  quite 
intent  upon  what  she  was  doing,  she  failed  to  notice 
the  change  that  had  come  over  his  face,  and  not 
once  surmised  his  misinterpretation  of  her  remark 
concerning  Fabricius. 

When  she  again  rose,  and  quickly  collecting 
herself,  turned  to  address  him,  Theophilus  had  al- 
ready drawn  himself  up  proudly  to  his  full  height. 

[77] 


Darkling  and  seemingly  unconcerned,  he  looked 
into  her  eyes;  almost  scornfully  he  begged  her  par- 
don, and  promising  a  full  restitution  for  the  broken 
vase,  bowed  and  left  the   garden. 

Dorothea  turned  pale,  and  with  tears  gathering 
in  her  beautiful  eyes  followed  the  tall  form  of  Theo- 
philus  as  he  drew  his  white  toga  about  him,  and 
inclined  his  head  with  its  curling  locks,  as  if  lost  in 
deep  philosophical  reflections. 

Only  the  waves  of  the  silvery  sea  lapped  softly 
in  slow  beats  at  the  marble  steps  of  the  shore.  All 
else  was  quiet,  and  Dorothea's  small  strategies  were 
at  an  end. 

Weeping  bitterly,  she  wended  her  way  slowly 
to  her  room,  there  to  hide  the  fragments  of  the 
broken  vessel. 

Months  passed,  and  the  lovers  had  not  met. 
Theophilus  had  betaken  himself  at  once  to  the 
capital,  and  when,  by  autumn,  Dorothea  also  re- 
turned, he  carefully  avoided  seeing  her.  Even  the 
thought  of  a  meeting  with  her  troubled  and  excited 
him,  and  thus  their  fond  young  dream  seemed 
forever  past  and  ended. 

Now  it  came  about,  and  quite  naturally  too, 
that  Dorothea  sought  solace  in  the  faith  of  her 
parents,  and  they,  noticing  it,  did  not  neglect  to 

[78] 


encourage  her  and  to  seek  to  introduce  her  to  the 
tenets  of  the  new  religion. 

Meantime  the  apparently  favorable  attitude  of 
Dorothea  towards  the  governor  had  produced  its 
unfortunate  effect  in  that  it  led  Fabricius  to  renew 
his  suit  with  increased  fervor,  as  he  fully  believed 
he  was  justified  in  doing. 

But  what  was  his  astonishment  when  Dorothea 
would  not  even  deign  to  look  upon  him,  and  his 
presence  seemed  more  distasteful  to  her  than  com- 
munion with  her  own  sad  thoughts.  Yet  Fabricus 
was  undismayed.  In  sooth,  he  increased  his  at- 
tentions, but  strangely  enough,  he  began  at  the 
same  time  to  assail  her  new  faith,  and  to  mingle  his 
flatteries  with  thinly  veiled  threats. 

Dorothea,  however,  confessed  her  belief  openly 
and  fearlessly;  and  flatly  discountenancing  his  suit, 
paid  no  more  attention  to  him. 

Theophilus  heard  of  all  this  and  learned  too  that 
she  was  quite  unhappy.  Most  of  all  did  the  news 
that  she  positively  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  governor  astonish  him.  Now,  although  in 
matters  of  religion  Theophilus  was  worldly-minded 
and  quite  indifferent,  he  was  not  at  all  inimical  to 
the  girl's  new  faith,  and  actuated  by  his  old-time 
regard  for  her,  he  began  gradually  to  make   ap- 

[79] 


preaches,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  see  or  hear  how 
she  was  faring. 

But  Dorothea  was  able  in  those  days  to  think 
or  do  nothing  except  to  speak  in  the  tenderest 
phrases  of  a  heavenly  bridegroom,  who  was  await- 
ing her  in  undying  glory  to  present  her  with  the 
rose  of  eternal  life. 

Of  course  Theophilus  did  not  understand  this 
language.  It  angered  and  hurt  him  and  filled  his 
heart  with  a  peculiar,  painful  jealousy  of  the  un- 
known god  who  had  infatuated  the  mind  of  the 
poor  child,  for  he  was  unable  to  explain  the  lan- 
guage of  the  agitated  and  forsaken  woman  in  any 
other  than  the  current  mythological  fashion.  But 
to  be  jealous  of  a  celestial  did  not  hurt  his  pride; 
and  his  sympathy  for  a  maiden  who  boasted  of  re- 
lations with  the  gods,  waned. 

Still  it  was  only  her  unrequited  love  for  him 
that  was  responsible  for  this  behavior,  just  as  Theo- 
philus himself  never  ceased  to  feel  the  promptings 
of  the  old  ardor  in  his  heart. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  a  time  until 
Fabricius  forcibly  intervened.  Alleging  that  he  had 
new  imperial  orders  to  prosecute  the  Christians,  he 
had  Dorothea  and  her  parents  arrested,  but  separ- 
ately   incarcerated    and    examined    under    torture. 

[80] 


Eager  to  learn  the  result,  Fabricius  came  in  person 
and  with  his  own  ears  heard  Dorothea  revile  the 
ancient  gods  and  confess  Christ  as  the  one  and 
only  Lord  of  the  world,  whose  promised  bride  she 
professed  to  be. 

Now  the  governor  was  likewise  seized  with 
great  jealousy.  He  resolved  to  destroy  her  and 
commanded  that  she  be  tortured  and,  should  she 
continue  perverse,  executed.  Thereupon  he  de- 
parted. 

Accordingly  she  was  placed  upon  an  iron  grate 
under  which  coals  were  ignited  in  such  fashion  that 
the  heat  arose  but  slowly.  But  Dorothea's  delicate 
body  soon  began  to  suffer  great  agony.  She  uttered 
suppressed  sobs;  her  limbs,  which  were  fastened 
to  the  iron  bars,  moved  convulsively  and  tears 
started  from  her  eyes. 

Meanwhile  Theophilus,  who  usually  refrained 
from  going  near  such  scenes,  had  heard  of  Doro- 
thea's straits  and  had  hastened  thither  in  agitation 
and  solicitude.  All  unmindful  of  his  own  safety,  he 
forced  his  way  through  the  gaping  crowd,  and  when 
Dorothea's  subdued  sobs  struck  his  ear,  he  snatched 
a  sword  from  one  of  the  soldiers  and  with  a  bound, 
stood  before  the  bed  of  torture. 

"Thou    art    in    great    pain,"    said    he,    smiling 

[81] 


through  his  grief,  as  he  stood  about  to  cut  her 
bonds  asunder. 

As  if  suddenly  freed  from  all  suffering  and  filled 
with  the  greatest  joy,  she  answered:  "And  why 
dost  thou  think  it  painful,  Theophilus?  These  are 
the  roses  of  my  beloved  bridegroom  on  which  I  am 
reclining,  and  today  is  my  bridal  day." 

About  her  lips  there  hovered  an  expression  of 
sweet  playfulness  and  her  eyes  beamed  upon  him 
with  an  almost  heavenly  radiance,  while  a  halo  of 
light  seemed  to  transfigure  both  the  girl  and  her 
gruesome  couch.  A  solemn  stillness  ensued;  Theo- 
philus' arm  faltered;  then  he  cast  the  sword  aside 
and  withdrew,  abashed  and  perplexed,  as  he  had 
that  eventful  morning  in  the  garden  by  the  sea. 

And  now  the  flame  leapt  up  anew.  Dorothea 
groaned  loudly  and  begged  for  death.  This  boon 
was  soon  granted  her  and  she  was  led  forth  to  the 
place  of  execution  to  be  beheaded. 

With  a  light  step  she  made  her  way  thither,  fol- 
lowed by  the  thoughtless,  clamoring  mob.  As  she 
was  led  along,  she  caught  sight  of  Theophilus,  who, 
standing  by  the  way,  never  took  his  eyes  from  her 
for  a  m.oment.  Their  glances  met.  Dorothea 
paused  a  moment,  and  in  her  sweet  voice  said:  "O 
Theophilus,  if  only  you  knew  how  beautiful  are  the 

[82] 


rose-gardens  of  my  Lord,  into  which  I  shall  enter 
within  a  few  moments,  and  how  fragrant  the  sweet 
apples  that  grow  there,  you  would  come  with  me." 

And  Theophilus,  laughing  bitterly,  answered 
"Ah,  Dorothea,  send  me  of  your  roses  and  apples 
when  you  enter  into  your  paradise,  will  you  not?" 
And  she  nodded  sweetly  and  continued  on  her  way. 
Theophilus  followed  her  with  his  eyes  until  the 
cloud  of  dust,  gold-tinted  by  the  rays  of  the  evening 
sun,  which  accompanied  the  procession,  faded  away 
in  the  distance,  and  the  street  became  again  quiet 
and  forsaken. 

Then,  concealing  his  face  in  his  toga,  to  hide  his 
grief,  he  walked  slowly  homeward.  With  wavering 
step  he  mounted  to  the  roof  of  his  dwelling,  from 
whence  there  was  an  outlook  towards  the  mount 
Argasus,  at  the  base  of  which  the  place  of  execu- 
tion lay.  Far  in  the  distance  he  could  distinguish 
clearly  the  dark,  surging  mass  of  human  forms,  and 
he  extended  his  arms  passionately  towards  the 
spot.  And  now  he  saw  in  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun  the  flash  of  a  descending  blade,  and  he  fell  head- 
long as  he  stood,  with  his  face  upon  the  ground,  for 
at  that  very  m.oment  Dorothea  had  perished  be- 
neath the  executioner's  sword. 

He  had  not  long  lain  motionless,  however,  when 

[83] 


a  bright  shaft  of  light  illumined  the  falling  dusk, 
the  dazzling  splendor  of  it  penetrating  his  closed 
eyelids  like  liquid  gold,  while  at  the  same  time  the 
air  was  filled  with  sweet  fragrance. 

As  if  animated  by  a  new  sense  of  life,  the  young 
man  arose.  Before  him  stood  a  wondrously  beauti- 
ful boy  with  curly  golden  locks  and  dimpled  bare 
feet.  He  was  clothed  in  a  starry  garment  and  held 
in  his  luminous  hands  a  small  basket,  filled  with 
exquisite  roses,  the  like  of  which  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  among  the  roses  there  lay  three 
apples  of  Paradise. 

With  a  naive  and  childlike  laugh,  and  yet  not 
without  a  certain  sweet  archness,  the  child  said: 
"Dorothea  sends  you  this,"  and  placing  the  basket 
in  Theophilus'  hands  he  added,  "You  are  sure  you 
have  a  firm  hold  upon  it?'*  then  disappeared. 

There  was  no  mistake.  Theophilus  really  held 
the  basket  in  his  hand..  Upon  examination  he 
found  in  each  of  the  three  apples  the  marks  of  two 
dainty  teeth,  a  token  which  lovers  of  antiquity  were 
fond  of  employing.  Straightway  he  placed  an 
apple  between  his  lips,  and  under  the  starry 
heavens,  partook  with  a  sweet  sadness  of  the 
heavenly  food. 

As  he  did  so,  a  great  longing  came  over  him,  and 

[84] 


pressing  the  basket  to  his  breast  and  covering  it 
with  his  cloak,  he  hastened  down  from  the  roof, 
through  the  streets  and  into  the  palace  of  the 
governor,  whom  he  found  sitting  at  meat,  seeking 
to  drown  his  great  rage  in  the  undiluted  wine  of 
Colchis. 

With  glowing  eyes  Theophilus  approached  him, 
not,  however,  disclosing  his  basket,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  entire  household  addressed  him  thus: 
"I  confess  to  the  faith  of  Dorothea  whom  you  have 
just  put  to  death.    It  is  the  only  true  faith." 

"Then  you  shall  follow  the  witch,"  cried  the 
governor,  springing  from  his  chair,  shaken  by  sud- 
den anger  and  fierce  envy.  And  the  private  secre- 
tary was  beheaded  that  very  hour. 

Thus  Theophilus  was  united  with  Dorothea  at 
once  and  forever. 

She  greeted  him  with  the  calm  look  and  de- 
meanor of  the  angels,  and  like  two  doves,  who, 
separated  for  a  season  by  the  storm,  have  been  re- 
united and  now  wing  their  v/ay  about  the  nest  in 
great  circles,  so  the  reunited  lovers  glided  hand  in 
hand  swiftly  and  without  stopping  to  rest,  along 
the  outermost  confines  of  heaven,  freed  from  all 
the  dross  of  the  earthly,  and  yet  perfectly  them- 
selves. 

[85] 


Joyously  they  separated  now  and  strayed  far 
and  wide  in  the  infinite  realms,  each  knowing,  how- 
ever, where  the  other  was,  and  what  he  thought,  and 
that  each  enfolded  the  other  and  all  creation  and  all 
being  in  his  love.  Again  they  sought  each  other, 
as  a  longing  that  knew  no  sorrow  and  no  im- 
patience possessed  them;  and  when  they  met  they 
wandered  hand  in  hand  or  rested  in  contempla- 
tion of  each  other  and  of  the  vast  extent  of  the  in- 
finite world. 


[«6] 


THE  DANCE  LEGEND 

O  virgin  of  Israel;  thou  shalt  again  be  adorned 
nvith  thy  tabrets,  and  shalt  again  go  forth  in  the 
dances  of  them  that  make  merry. 

Then  shall  the  virgin  rejoice  in  the  dance,  hoth 
young  men  and  old  together. — Jeremiah  XXXI,  4,13. 

HCCORDING  to  Saint  Gregory,  Musa  was 
the  dancer  among  the  saints.  She  was  a 
beautiful  girl,  of  good  parentage,  and 
she  served  the  Virgin  zealously.  She  was  possessed 
of  but  one  reprehensible  trait, — an  almost  irresist- 
ible love  of  the  dance.  So  ardent  was  her  fondness 
for  this  pastime  that  when  the  child  was  not  at  her 
prayers,  she  might  surely  be  found  dancing.  And 
in  sooth  there  was  no  form  of  dancing  she  did  not 
like.  She  danced  with  her  playmates,  with  the 
children,  with  the  young  men,  and  by  herself.  She 
danced  in  her  chamber,  she  danced  in  the  halls,  she 
danced  in  the  gardens  and  she  danced  out  on  the 
meadows.  And  even  v/hen  she  approached  the 
altar,  her  carriage  was  rather  the  graceful,  rythmic 
movement  of  the  dance  than  the  prosaic  walk,  and 
she  never  failed  to  enjoy  a  few  measures  on  the 
smooth  marble  slabs  before  the  church  door. 

Indeed,  one  day  when  she  was  alone  in  the  sanc- 

[87] 


tuary  she  could  not  refrain  from  executing  a  few 
figures  before  the  altar,  and,  as  it  were,  dancing  a 
pretty  prayer  before  the  Virgin.  So  enrapt  was 
she  in  this  that,  when  a  noble  looking  man  danced 
out  towards  her,  supplementing  her  figures  so  skill- 
fully that  together  they  carried  out  a  most  beauti- 
ful minuet,  she  imagined  herself  only  dreaming. 

The  man  wore  a  gown  of  royal  purple  and  a 
crown  of  gold,  and  his  lustrous,  wavy,  dark  beard 
had  the  merest  suggestion  of  the  silvery  hoar  of 
years,   like  the  distant  glimmer  of  starlight. 

Above  them  from  the  choir-loft  resounded 
sweet  music,  for  there  on  the  parapet  sat,  or  stood, 
a  company  of  small  cherubs  playing  various  in- 
struments, their  dimpled  little  legs  hanging  down 
over  the  coping. 

They  were  gladsome  little  fellows,  and  practical 
too,  for  they  made  the  stone  angels  that  served  as 
decorative  figures  on  the  balcony  railing  hold  their 
music  for  them,  all  except  the  smallest  of  them,  a 
chubby-cheeked  flute-player,  who  sat  with  legs 
crossed,  holding  the  sheet  of  music  between  his 
pink  toes.  This  little  fellow  was  also  most  intent 
upon  his  work.  The  rest  sat  dangling  their  feet 
and  teasing  each  other,  and  now  and  again  one  of 
them  would  stretch  his  rustling  wings  so  that  you 

[88] 


might  see  the  play  of  colors  on  them  as  on  the  neck 
of  a  dove. 

But  Musa  was  too  engrossed  to  wonder  at  all 
this,  until  the  dance  was  over,  and  that  was  a  con- 
siderable time,  for  her  jovial  partner  seemed  to  take 
just  as  much  pleasure  in  it  as  did  Musa,  who  felt  as 
if  transported  to  the  heavens. 

But  when  the  music  ceased  and  Musa  stood 
with  heaving  bosom,  fear  began  to  steal  over  her  as 
she  looked  in  amazement  at  the  man,  who  seemed 
neither  to  breathe  more  heavily  nor  to  have  become 
in  the  slightest  heated  by  the  dance. 

Introducing  himself  as  David,  the  royal  ancestor 
and  at  the  same  time  the  messenger  of  the  Virgin, 
he  said:  "And  now,  my  pretty  maid,  what  say  you 
to  spending  eternity  in  one  never-ending  joyous 
dance,  compared  to  v>7hich  the  one  we  have  just 
danced  may  be  called  a  sorry  form  of  creeping?" 

She  answered  that  nothing  could  give  her 
greater  delight,  whereupon  David  replied :  "In  that 
case  you  have  only  to  renounce  the  dance  and  all 
worldly  pleasures  during  your  lifetime  and  to  con- 
secrate yourself  to  penance  and  spiritual  exercises 
v/ithout  once  wavering  or  wearying  in  them." 

Taken  aback  somewhat  by  this,  she  asked  him 
whether  she  must  renovmce  these  pleasures  entirely. 

[  89  ] 


She  even  expressed  a  doubt  that  there  was  any 
dancing  in  heaven,  for,  said  she,  "Everything  has 
its  time  and  place,  and  the  earth  seems  good  enough 
for  dancing,  so  that  heaven  must  have  other  uses, 
otherwise  death  were  entirely  superfluous." 

But  David  made  clear  to  her  that  she  was  much 
mistaken,  and  he  proved  by  many  passages  of 
Scripture,  as  well  as  by  his  own  example,  that  danc- 
ing was  a  sacred  form  of  amusement  among  the 
blessed.  *'Now,  we  want  a  few  more  dancers  in 
heaven,"  said  he,  "so  let  us  have  a  quick  decision 
whether  or  not  you  will,  through  temporal  renun- 
ciation, enter  the  joys  of  the  blest." 

Musa  stood  irresolute  and  in  doubt,  nervously 
pursing  her  lips  against  the  tips  of  her  rosy  fingers. 
It  did  seem  hard  to  give  up  her  favorite  pastime 
and  all  for  the  promises  of  an  insecure  reward. 

But  as  she  stood  revolving  the  matter,  suddenly, 
upon  a  signal  from  David,  the  first  measures  of  an 
ineffably  sweet  dance  floated  out  on  the  stillness 
of  the  chapel.  The  girl  stood  trembling  with  joy- 
ful agitation,  her  limbs  all  a-quiver,  but  unable  to 
enter  into  the  movement  of  the  dance,  for,  as  she 
soon  perceived,  her  earthly  body  was  far  too  cum- 
brous for  such  melody.  Filled  with  longing,  she 
placed  her  hand  in  that  of  the  king  and  promised. 

[90] 


In  a  trice  she  was  alone.  The  ministering 
angels  had  fluttered  and  rustled  away,  jostling  each 
other  as  they  flew  out  through  an  open  window  of 
the  chapel,  after  having  in  true  childlike  mischiev- 
ousness  slapped  the  cheeks  of  the  patient  stone 
cherubs  with  their  rolled-up  music  sheets,  each  slap 
awakening  loud  echoes  in  the  old  church. 

Musa  walked  home  with  devout  step,  the 
heavenly  melody  still  vibrating  within  her  soul. 
Laying  off  her  pretty  clothes,  she  donned  a  coarse 
penitent's  garb.  Where  the  trees  cast  a  dense 
shade,  in  the  rear  of  her  father's  garden,  a  hermit's 
cell  was  erected,  and  within  it  a  moss-covered  pal- 
let. Here  she  lived  from  that  time  on,  apart  from 
the  world, — a  penitent  and  a  recluse. 

She  spent  her  time  in  prayer  and  frequent  casti- 
gations.  Her  most  severe  penance  consisted  in 
holding  her  limbs  perfectly  quiet,  for  as  soon  as  a 
note  was  sounded  without — the  song  of  a  bird  or 
the  rustling  of  the  leaves — her  feet  began  to  twitch 
for  the  dance.  And  since,  before  she  was  aware  of 
it,  this  impulse  at  times  prompted  her  into  a  little 
bound,  she  had  her  feet  fastened  together  with  a 
light  chain. 

Her  relatives  and  friends  marvelled  day  and 
night  at  her  transformation,  but  were  none  the  less 

[91] 


proud  to  possess  so  great  a  saint,  and  guarded  the 
hermitage  among  the  trees  as  the  apple  of  their 
eye.  Many  came  for  advice  and  for  prayers.  Espe- 
cially did  they  bring  young  girls  who  were  awk- 
ward of  bearing,  since  all  whom  she  touched  began 
forthwith  to  walk  easily  and  gracefully. 

In  this  way  Musa  lived  in  her  cell  for  three 
years.  Towards  the  end  of  the  third  year  she  had 
become  as  light  and  ethereal  as  a  summer  cloud. 
She  lay  day  and  night  on  her  moss-covered  bed,  her 
eyes  turned  wistfully  to  heaven,  where  already  she 
believed  she  could  see,  through  the  blue,  the  golden 
slippers  of  the  saints  dancing  down  the  corridors  of 
heaven. 

At  last,  on  a  blustering  autumn  day  the  news 
went  out  that  the  saint  lay  dying.  She  had  laid  off 
her  dark  penitential  garb,  had  clothed  herself  in  a 
dazzling  white  bridal  gown  and  lay  with  folded 
hands,  serenely  awaiting  the  hour  of  departure. 

The  garden  was  filled  with  throngs  of  the  faith- 
ful, the  autumn  winds  sighed  mournfully,  while,  all 
about,  the  leaves  fell  noiselessly  to  the  ground. 

But,  of  a  sudden,  the  moaning  of  the  wind  in 
the  tree-tops  was  changed  to  sweet  music,  and 
when  the  people  looked  aloft,  they  saw  the 
branches  clothed  with  bright  green  foliage.     The 

[  92  ]  ^ 


myrtles  and  pomegranates  had  sprung  out  in  full 
bloom  and  fragrance,  and  round  about,  the  ground 
was  covered  with  flowers,  while  the  delicate  white 
form  of  the  dying  girl  lay  suffused  with  rosy  light. 

At  this  moment  her  fair  spirit  took  its  flight,  the 
chain  about  her  ankles  snapped  asunder  with  a 
sound  like  the  silvery  peal  of  a  bell,  while  the 
heavens  that  now  lay  wide  open  to  the  eyes  of  all 
were  filled  with  infinite  splendor  and  majesty. 

And  there  were  seen  thousands  of  fair  boys  and 
girls  dancing  in  great  circles  in  the  white  light  of 
heaven.  Now  a  glorious  king,  riding  on  a  cloud  on 
one  border  of  which  was  stationed  a  royal  choir  of 
cherubs,  descended  towards  the  earth  and  received 
the  sainted  form  of  Musa  before  the  eyes  of  all  as- 
sembled in  the  garden. 

The  multitude  continued  to  gaze  until  they  saw 
her  spring  with  a  bound  into  the  open  heavens, 
where  she  was  lost  at  once  in  the  vibrant  ranks  of 
the  shining  dancers. 

There  was  high  holiday  in  heaven  that  day,  and 
on  holidays  it  was  the  custom  (to  be  sure  this  is 
denied  by  Gregory  of  Nyssa,  yet  it  is  affirmed  by 
Gregory  of  Nazianzus)  to  invite  the  nine  Muses, 
who  dwelt  in  Hades,  into  heaven,  there  to  render 
assistance  at  the  ceremonies.   They  were,  on  such  oc- 

[93] 


casions,  dined  sumptuously  but  were  obliged,  after 
having  fulfilled  their  task,  to  return  to  the  shades. 

When  on  this  day  the  dances  and  songs  and  all 
the  ceremonies  were  over  and  the  heavenly  hosts 
were  about  to  sit  down  to  the  feast,  Musa  was 
seated  with  the  Nine  Sisters,  who  sat  nestling  close 
together,  casting  shy  glances  hither  and  thither 
from  the  corners  of  their  fiery  black  or  tranquil 
dark-blue  eyes.  Martha,  the  industrious,  mentioned 
in  the  gospels,  was  there  to  attend  in  person  to  their 
wants.  She  had  donned  her  prettiest  kitchen-apron, 
and  the  sweetest  little  spot  of  soot  adorned  her 
white  chin.  She  was  radiant,  and  insistently  urged 
the  Muses  to  help  themselves  to  all  the  good  things. 

But  not  until  Musa  and  Saint  Cecilia  and  other 
women  v/ell  versed  in  art-lore  approached,  and 
pleasantly  greeting  the  shy  Pierides,  sat  down  with 
them,  did  they  lay  aside  their  shyness  and  appear 
at  ease;  but  finally  the  intercourse  among  the  fair 
banqueters  became  happy  and  free. 

Musa  sat  next  to  Terpsichore;  Cecilia  sat  be- 
tween Polyhymnia  and  Euterpe,  and  all  clasped  one 
another's  hands.  Then  came  the  cherubs,  and  seek- 
ing to  ingratiate  themselves  by  fond  caresses, 
begged  for  some  of  the  fruits  that  shone  on  the  am- 
brosial board. 

[  04  ]      _ 


King  David  came  also,  hoid^'ng  in  his  ha?icl  a 
golden  goblet  from  which  each  drank  in  turn.  Joy 
animated  the  fair  circle,  as*,  he  walked  cbrr-plHcmitly 
about  the  board,  stopping  a  moment  in  passing  to 
caress  the .  cheek  of  the  lovely  Erato. 

At  the  moment  of  supremest  joy  at  the  table  of 
the  Muses,  Our  Lady  herself  approached  in  all  of 
her  beauty  and  grace,  and  sat  down  for  a  little 
chat  with  them.  When  she  at  length  departed  she 
kissed  high  Urania  tenderly  upon  the  lips,  whisper- 
ing as  she  did  so  that  she  would  never  be  content^ 
until  the  Muses  were  taken  into  Paradise  forever. 

But  her  wish  was  never  realized,  and  this  is  the 
reason  for  it :  To  prove  their  gratitude  for  the  kind- 
nesses bestowed  upon  them  and  to  show  their  good 
will,  the  Muses  held  a  council  and  decided  to  pre- 
pare a  song  of  praise  to  be  given  at  their  next  ap- 
pearance in  heaven.  The  rehearsal  was  held  in  a 
remote  spot  of  the  Lower  World,  and  they  strove  to 
imitate  the  form  of  the  solemn  choral  songs  cus- 
tomary in  heaven.  They  formed  two  quartettes  of 
their  number,  with  Urania  as  a  sort  of  leading  voice 
for  both.  In  this  way  they  achieved  a  most  remark- 
able vocal  effect. 

When  at  the  next  holiday  in  heaven  the  Muses 
were  again  invited  to  take  part  they  took  advan- 

[95] 


tag€;  of.  a  memejnt. 'which  seemed  timely,  and  assum- 
ing their  respective  places  began  gently  to  intonate 
their  r>cng,  ^vh^ch  srx)n  rose  and  swelled  mightily 
down  the  great  corridors  of  heaven. 

But  alas !  in  these  halls  it  sounded  sombre  and 
uncouth,  indeed  almost  defiant,  and  so  full  of  long- 
ing and  sorrow  was  it  that  there  fell  upon  the 
hearers  a  frightened  silence.  Gradually,  as  the  song 
went  on,  all  the  folk  of  heaven  were  overcome  by 
the  burden  of  earth-woe  and  homesickness  con- 
tained in  it,  and  all  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 

A  great  sobbing  was  heard  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  heaven,  and  all  the  elders  and 
prophets  rushed  up  astovmded.  But  in  their  well- 
meaning  zeal  the  Muses  continued  to  sing  louder 
and  louder  and  in  more  melancholy  strains  than 
ever,  and  all  Paradise  with  the  patriarchs,  elders, 
prophets,  and  all  who  had  ever  walked  or  reclined 
upon  the  green  celestial  meads  were  overcome  by 
their  emotions,  and  finally  the  Most  High,  ap- 
proaching in  person  to  right  matters,  silenced  the 
Muses  with  a  long-drawn  peal  of  thunder. 

Then  quiet  and  peace  were  restored  in  heaven. 
But  the  unfortunate  Nine  Sisters  were  oblip"ed  to 
leave  and  have  not  again  been  invited  to  enter  the 
sacred  portals. 

[96] 


\  V 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

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